Book of Jane
by philcarey
Summary: I do not know where I'm going, so I'll start with where I've been. I live in a world of monsters, down lonely highways and in empty rooms. I am a huntress, but supernatural like those I stalk. Years ago, I swore I would keep myself a secret, but a surly hunter with green eyes threatens to reveal who I really am. My name is Jane.
1. Chapter 1

PROLOGUE

A gift is something freely given with no expectation of payment in return.

I do not call it a gift. I call it a burden.

I lose a bit of my soul every time I watch someone die.

I descend a step further into hell whenever I choose my life over theirs.

It is not a gift; it is a curse.

My guilt haunts me and the phantoms in my dreams don't care.

They blame me and condemn me and I do not make excuses.

I am Jane. This is my story.

Chapter 1

A dull thud pulsed in the back of my head as I ran my palm across my face, trying to wipe away the confusion. I squinted my eyes as the first rays of dawn peeked through the tacky polyester curtains. I smelled sweat and sex and felt the cheap sheets stretched across my naked body. I closed my eyes and listened to the soft snore of the man beside me. I knew I needed a Gatorade and some ibuprofen. I swallowed the sour taste in my mouth which begged me to brush my teeth. I slipped carefully out of the bed, easing off the mattress, hoping he would stay asleep.

As I crept toward the bathroom I grabbed my clothes off the floor. It took me a minute to retrieve them all, strewn about the motel room. I tiptoed, embarrassed and amused in my semi-conscious state, the scenes from the night before crashing into my pounding skull. Part of me wanted to climb back into bed with him, to arch my back in euphoria again, but I had to get out of there and get on the road. I threw on a pair of jeans and the shirt from the night before, then washed my face and brushed my teeth. I rinsed my hands and ran them through my short, light brown hair. For a moment, I gazed at myself in the mirror. I had to stop doing this shit. I looked like hell.

When I stepped out of the bathroom, my eyes fixed on him, still unconscious and tangled in the sheets. The corner of my mouth turned up in a smile for a moment, but I forced it to retreat. I snatched my backpack and laptop case, grateful that I packed light. I gingerly turned the lock and opened the door, wincing at the squeak. I glanced over at Dean, still asleep, before I stepped out the door, pulling it closed gently.

"Shit." I pulled my car keys out of my jeans pocket and stared at them in my open palm. They looked like spares, two lonely Briggs and Stratton keys connected with a single ring. I had no home, so I needed no house keys and the lack of a key chain kept them slim in my front pocket. I scanned the parking lot, hoping to see Marie, though I was already sure I left my her parked outside the bar downtown. I could call a cab, but didn't want to deal with the smug look of the driver as he drove me from the motel back to the bar. I groaned and pulled my black wayfarer sunglasses out of the front pocket of my backpack, then trudged toward the street.

Twenty minutes later, I cruised up Highway 183. I hated Kansas and was glad to leave. I was halfway through my first Gatorade, trying to rehydrate before I picked up my stainless steel coffee tumbler. The ibuprofen was starting to work, but I knew part of the ache in my head was from lack of caffeine. First, I had to take care of my stomach. I reached over and popped open the plastic container beside me. As I peeled off the top of the egg croissant, I grimaced, then threw the sausage patty out the window.

As I choked down the sandwich, I kept running through the events of the past two days. I knew it was bound to happen, eventually. For almost eight years, I had crisscrossed the Midwest, hunting, healing, bringing back the dead. With Bobby's help, I had skillfully avoided the brothers. The crotchety old man was adamant that I should never meet them. When they called, he used to scold me as he rushed me out of his house, "You have enough problems without those idjits getting you in trouble." But Bobby was gone and so was my fear of disappointing him.

He taught me to watch for them, to abandon any job if I saw the black Impala ominously pull into town. A handful of times, I threw my backpack in the trunk of my 1967 Madeira maroon Camaro and hit the road when I spied Dean's car. More than once, I had already found the supe I was searching for, so I cast it away and left them with the ghost of a case which no longer existed. I often wondered what they thought of that.

Four days ago, I ignored the rules of my cranky, almost-father. Maybe it's because he's dead.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

When I pulled up outside the red brick police station in Hays, Kansas, I instantly spotted the black Impala. She dared me to go inside, to forget the monster I was hunting. I reached in the backseat and grabbed a demure light blue hoodie, then zipped it over my black Pink Floyd t-shirt. I traded my thick-soled black leather Sketchers for a pair of light brown loafers, and got out of the car, locking the driver's side door before it closed. As I stepped away, I made sure my only keys still dangled in the ignition.

I inched open the glass doors and pulled my shoulders down, shrinking as I put on my doe-eyed, damsel-in-distress look. I recognized Dean and Sam immediately as they stood behind the counter talking to a uniformed officer. Due to their slick, inexpensive suits, I guessed they were posing as Feds. Luckily, the policeman seemed to be the only other person in the building at the moment and didn't notice my entry. I slinked over to one of wooden benches by the door, and pulled my cellphone out of my pocket, pretending to text someone. I avoided looking at the men directly and instead strained to listen to their conversation with the officer, something about the recent string of deaths at the nearby Fort Hays State Historic Site. I had intended to investigate the case they were discussing, however, I was suddenly more interested in stalking the hunters.

As they turned toward me, I kept my head down and fixed my gaze on my phone, punching letters with my thumbs. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the Winchesters each glance down at me as they exited the door.

"Can I help you?" The young officer smiled as he stood at the counter. Like nearly everyone in these small Midwestern towns, he had light skin and blond hair.

I stood up and shrugged my shoulders, "Um, I'm sorry. I accidentally locked my keys in my car." I winced for effect. "I'm not from here, so I don't know how to get ahold of a locksmith or whatever, so I thought you might be able to help me since I'm just outside." I motioned to the door and shifted nervously. "I mean, if it's too much trouble, I can walk to the convenience store down the street and ask for help..." I hated to pretend to be helpless.

"No, uh..." He looked around at the empty office. "If you're just outside, it's not a problem."

"Oh, thank you so much!" I exclaimed and headed out the door. I slowed as I saw Sam and Dean standing at the doors of the Impala, talking over the car before they got inside. The policeman followed behind me. "I'm right over here." I pointed toward my Camaro.

When we reached the driver's side, I turned my head to watch the Winchesters drive away. I pulled on the handle of the door, "See, it's locked and there are my keys."

The officer peered into the window. "Uh, the passenger side is unlocked." He chuckled.

I gasped. "I am so sorry. Thank you so much for your help!" I hurried over to the passenger side and slid across the street, waving to the policeman as I turned over the engine. I knew my delay was perfect as I watched the Impala a few blocks away. A car passed me before I merged on to the street, giving me the right amount of cover.

Keeping a safe amount of distance between us, I tailed them out to Fort Hays State Park. I traded the blue hoodie for a gray cable knit sweater, a slouched oversized gray beanie to cover my hair, and a pair of black Jackie O sunglasses. Though it was a weekday, it was easy to blend in with the history buffs, slowly shifting from each display and placard. I moved with the small packs of tourists, trying to keep my back to the men as they toured the officers quarters and the guardhouse, where the deaths occurred: one man "accidentally" impaled by the bayonet on a rifle, another found frozen to death outside of the blockhouse. The historian seemed especially troubled by the final victim, an intern who seemed to die of severe dehydration and diarrhea within 30 minutes of appearing perfectly well.

The Winchesters walked back to the Impala and left the grounds. I waited until the black car was out of sight before I pulled away.

I needed to leave Hays. The brothers could handle this on their own. They didn't need me. I wasn't supposed to let people know about me, to know what I am.

I started up Marie and headed out of town on 183. At the edge of Hays, I drove past an L-shaped motel, neon lights flickering in the impending dusk. I sighed, then flipped a U-turn in the middle of the highway.

In my room that night, I tried to justify my actions to myself. They would miss something. I could beat them to it. Someone would die if I wasn't the one to cast away whatever supe prowled the historic fort. As I laid on the queen size mattress and gazed at the gaudy yellowish-gold wallpaper, I knew I was lying.

I got off the bed and looked around the room. I must have left my laptop in the car.

I walked to the door and took a step outside before jumping back into the room, slamming the door. I peeked out between the brown drapes to see Dean getting out of the Impala across the parking lot, a six pack of beer bottles in his hand. He opened the door to room 11 and walked in.

When I drove through town earlier that day, I must have seen five or ten other motels, but they chose this one. Damn. I heard Bobby's voice in my head telling me to get the hell out of Dodge.

I closed the curtain and sighed. I counted to 200, hoping he was in for the night. I sneaked a look out the window again and saw the parking lot quiet under the orange glow of the streetlights. It didn't help that we seemed to be the only lodgers at the motel. I decided to dart out to my car and get my computer anyway.

Fifteen minutes later, at the small table with dark walnut veneer, I found a likely suspect.

Elizabeth Polly, or "Blue Light Lady," as the locals called her, was the wife of a hospital steward during the 1860s during a cholera outbreak at the fort. Elizabeth cared for the cholera victims until she succumbed to the illness, dying in 1867. She wanted to be buried on nearby Sentinel Hill, but the bedrock made it impossible. She was given full military rights at her burial, her final resting place at the base of the hill.

The ghost of Elizabeth Polly was killing at Fort Hays. That would explain the cholera symptoms of one of the victims, but not the bayoneting of the other vic or the frozen body of the third.

It occurred to me that the brothers were likely also using the free Wi/Fi, reading the same stories. I knew hunters usually exhumed the corpses of ghosts, salted the remains, then set the bones on fire. I had never done it myself; I didn't need to work that hard to dispel a ghost.

I waited until 10:00pm before I left my room. The Impala hadn't moved since Dean bought the beer, but I guessed they would head out soon. I started up Marie and drove to Sentinel Hill, moving a half mile past the turn and making a right behind a copse of cottonwoods. I pulled a flashlight out of the glove box and backtracked toward the fort, inching over the barbed wire fencing. The grounds were flat as hell, so I would see the Winchesters coming from a mile away. I hoped they wouldn't see me.

I nestled in between a patch of cedars and overgrown wild lilac bushes, then waited, the lingering smell of vanilla and sweet rose in the air. I closed my eyes and listened to the crickets and swaying grasses in the light breeze. My eyes opened to the heavens as I gazed up at the pinpoints of white in the black sky above. For just a moment, I was lost in the night, forgetting about the monsters and the demons and those I let die. Then, I heard a roar in the distance. The brothers would be there soon.

The engine quieted and I heard the slam of two doors echo across the field. If I had to guess, I would say they were about a quarter mile away. Soon, I saw two tiny shadows of light bobbing toward me. I froze my limbs and slowed my breathing as they moved past my hideout, carrying flashlights, shovels and a gas can. About 30 feet away, they stopped and began to dig. Their voices were clipped and I knew they were bickering back and forth.

Minutes later, I watched in awe as Sam dropped the match into the opened grave, the flames jumping out of the earth and licking the evening sky. I had to admit, the dramatic effect of burning bones was stunning. I wasn't ready to change my methods, however. Digging up a corpse seemed like a hell of a lot of work, even for two hunters in their prime.

I choked back a yawn as I watched them fill the plot once again. Pushing the dirt into the earth was much faster than digging, but I had to pee and I wished they would hurry. Soon, I studied the shadows of the brothers as they moved back to the Impala. After they started her up and pulled away, I crawled out of my hiding place and stretched, then started my trek back to Marie. Something didn't feel right. I wasn't sure if I was supposed to see a ghost or not during the ritual. I shrugged it off and drove back into town, careful to wait to pull into the lot at least 10 minutes after the Winchesters did.

I tried to sleep, but couldn't shake the feeling of uncertainty. I tossed and turned for several hours, then gave up and downed a Benadryl, some melatonin, and a capsule of 5-HTP, my own sleep cocktail. Sometimes the combination made me dream of the dead, demanding I give them answers. I knew I would feel drugged when I awoke the next day, but that was nothing new.

I got out of bed in the early afternoon, the unease still with me as I cursed the world and pulled the coffee grinder and sack of beans out of my pack. Within minutes, I poured a cup of steaming coffee from the toy size decanter. I would have to make more unless I found a proper coffee shop. The idea made me want to climb back into bed. I sneaked a glance out between the curtains and saw the Impala still in front of room 11. Sam and Dean must take a break between cases, too.

I showered and dressed, then started packing up. It never took me very long since I didn't own much of anything. Suddenly, I heard a squeal of tires. I ran to the window and watched the black car peel out of the parking lot. Something was wrong. Someone else was dead. I didn't need to trail them to know that much. I left my stuff in the room and walked out to my car, turning on the police scanner I had installed below the seat. I was right. Technically, the police weren't supposed to divulge much over the radio, simple coded transmissions for assistance, directions, and need-to-know information only. However, in most of these small towns, the cops were bored and used the radio to gossip.

OFFICER 1: Hey, what's with the DB out at the fort? I thought they closed it indefinitely.

OFFICER 2: They did. Some intern ended up there after hours.

OFFICER 1: What was the 10-20 of the vic?

OFFICER 2: Visitor center again. Crazy stuff. Christensen said he looked like he had starved to death, all skin and bones.

OFFICER 1: Damn, man. People around town are saying it's the Blue Lady. [laughter.]

OFFICER 2: Nah, my bet is that it's the ghost of some Indian. I mean, it sounds like someone is re-enacting what happened to the natives. [more laughter.]

I switched off the knob, feeling stupid and sick. I had been out at the fort when it happened. I could have stopped it, but I was busy stalking boys like a teenage girl. Guilt washed over me. I knew Sam and Dean would be there again later tonight, stealing some trinket that may have belonged to Elizabeth Polly, sure that destroying it would stop Death. I reminded myself that they could take care of themselves.

I got out of the car and went back into my room. I knew I should finish packing up and leave. Instead, I sat on the slick brown bedspread, knowing I would finish the job myself and watch the spirit leave with my own eyes.

But, there was daylight to burn. I dug in my pack until I found a sports bra, then I changed back into the white tank top and gray knit shorts I slept in the night before. I walked barefoot out to Marie and grabbed my gray and pick cross trainers from the trunk, then laced them up. In a tote I kept in the front seat, I pulled out green tea capsules, ginsing, and vitamin B tabs, hoping they would give me the energy I needed. I started to run, letting my mind escape in the wailing beat of Wolfmother playing on my iPod.

That night, I set out earlier at around 9:30 pm while the Impala sat silent in the lot. I parked in the trees beyond the fort again, my hiding place for Marie. I knew they would be there soon, so I hurried across the grounds. "Shit." I whispered as I saw the headlights pull into the visitor center parking lot ahead. I jumped behind a nearby tree as I watched the Dean pick the lock on the front door. Then, the two entered the dark building, flashlights drawn.

I jogged toward the visitor's center and inched open the unlocked glass doors, seeing nothing in the entryway beyond. I stood motionless waiting for a sound to lead me to the ghost, hoping that I would meet it before the Winchesters. The seconds ticked away in my head as I strained to hear something, anything.

I felt a shiver race up my back. I knew the spirit was close. Instinctively, I turned my head to the right.

The men began to shout. Glass shattered in the room at the far right end of the entryway. I jutted back and forth between the artifact cases, hurrying to the door. Two seconds before I reached the entrance, I heard Dean scream, "Sammy!" I rushed into the room and watched as Dean was plummeted with plates and kettles flying through the air from one of the displays. I stole a glance at the floor and saw Sam, curled up on his side, impaled with a US Calvary sword.

I stepped toward the warrior wearing buckskin breeches and rows of long white beads across his chest. "_Neeséh'e,_" I said in a voice above the clamor. The phantom turned toward me and I watched as the artifacts hung in the air, then dropped to the floor.

"What the hell?" Dean exclaimed, then looked at me wide-eyed for a second before he hustled toward his mortally wounded brother.

The ghost locked eyes with me, confusion spreading across his stern face.

"_U·e·ruch thshub al e·aleim ashr nthn·e._" I commanded, then watched the warrior as his countenance calmed. He blinked slowly and nodded. A blinding white light appeared in his chest and it grew until it consumed him, then exploded into thousands of tiny fragments of light, dimming as they fell. And then, he was gone.

"Sam! Come on, Sammy!" Dean yelled. He lifted his brother's head and Sam groaned, agony stretching across his face.

"It's bad..." Sam whispered.

"Yeah, Sammy, it's bad." Dean conceded. "But you're going to be okay. You hear me?"

He lied. Sam Winchester was going to die.

I took a deep breath, then exhaled. Bobby loved them and would want Sam to live. He trusted them and I should trust them, too. I knew they would not allow me to be taken or harmed. I slowly crouched down beside them. Blood was beginning to ooze around the brass guard of the sword, sticky red stretching out across Sam's flannel shirt.

"You're going to be fine, Sam." I smiled down at him. He met my eyes briefly, then he squeezed them shut again. I reached for the grip of the sword and began to pull it out. Sam screamed in pain.

Dean grabbed my arm and yelled at me. "What the hell are you doing!" He was enraged, his face inches from mine.

I stared into his fierce green eyes, and challenged him in a calm, low voice. "Do you want your brother to live or die?"

For a split second he glared at me confused, his eyes already wet with grief. Then, he shouted. "Live! Of course I want him to live!"

"Then, help me. It has to come out." I reasoned.

Dean grabbed the brass grip and slowly slid it out of his brother's abdomen as I tried to hold Sam still. Sam writhed and cried out as I pushed him over onto his back and rested my hand firmly over the gash, the warm blood rushing across my fingers.

"Now what?" Dean barked at me.

I looked up at the man in the black suit with ivory crowned cane and the expressionless pale face. He waited patiently behind Sam, unseen by either of the brothers. He wasn't my usual reaper. I hadn't seen him in nearly ten years. I hesitated when we met eyes, then summoned my courage and said, "Not today, friend."

"Hold on, Sam!" Dean exclaimed, then turned to me and blurted out, "Are you talking to reaper? Tell that son of a bitch he can't have my brother!"

"_Aole arke l·k u·m·mkuthi·k arpha·k._" I whispered as my hand began to glow over the wound and then faded out. The reaper disappeared.

I had about thirty seconds until it hit. In my head, I began to count: _one, two, three... _

Sam cried out as he arched his back.

"Sammy? Sammy?" Dean yelled, trying to hold his brother still.

_Seven, eight, nine..._

Sam's body went limp. His eyes closed and his face softened. Each breath was slower than the last until his breathing became quiet and calm.

"Sam!" Dean began to shake his brother's shoulders. "You're killing him!" He screamed at me. I could feel his breath on my face.

"Wait for it..." I stood up and stepped back, shards of glass and broken dishes crunching under my Sketchers.

_Seventeen, eighteen, nineteen..._

Sam began to squeeze his closed eyes, then he blinked them slowly and looked up at his brother. In a whisper, he said, "Dean?"

"Sammy!" Dean hugged him. "Are you okay?" Dean pulled back and looked his brother over, lifting up the bottom of his bloody flannel shirt. His mouth dropped open when he saw the wound had closed, not even leaving a mark. Sam sat up and looked down at his abdomen, smeared with red, reaching for a gash that no longer existed.

_Twenty-seven, twenty-eight, twenty-nine..._

I kicked at the debris, clearing a safe spot in case I fell. Dean and Sam looked up at me, confused, then it hit me.

"Shit." I moaned, doubling over. Fire and ice severed arteries and veins in my abdomen. I felt my intestines sliced open, bile spilling into the cavity. I grabbed at my belly, blood spilling out across my black Nirvana t-shirt. I fell to the floor.

"Son of a bitch!" Dean exclaimed, moving over toward me, lifting my head.

"No...hospital..." I gasped. "No...hospital..." I met his eyes and my vision began to blur, then everything went black.

I drifted in and out of consciousness. I could feel the motion of the car and heard Sam and Dean wondering what the hell to do with me. Paralyzed, I hoped they would take me somewhere safe and that I wouldn't wake up with an IV in my arm, having a CAT scan.

"Are you sure you're okay, Sam?"

"I'm fine. I'm great. What happened in there, Dean?"

"I have no idea. One minute I'm being pelted by dinnerware, the next minute the ghost whisperer bursts in, blows up the ghost, then heals you."

"She took my injury, Dean. What kind of thing does that?"

"She still unconscious? Bleeding all over?" I realized that I must be lying across the back, my head in Sam's lap.

"Yes! She needs a hospital, Dean."

"She was pretty clear on that, Sammy. No hospital."

"So we take her back to the room and let her die there?"

"I don't know, Sam!" Dean confessed. "I don't know what the hell she even is. _Can_ she die?"

I slipped back into the darkness until I felt someone carrying me, then gently lay me down on the bed. One of them peeled up the edge of my bloody t-shirt.

"Son of a bitch." Dean blurted out. "It's gone. She had a gaping hole there 10 minutes ago and now it's completely healed."

"But she's still unconscious..."

"Whatever she is..." Dean paused. I felt droplets of water hit my face, but I was still unable to move. "She's not a demon."

"And we're not cutting someone who just healed me..." Their voices faded away as I slipped back into the void.

I awoke slowly, first peeking through my eyelids, then blinking and gazing up at the dark ceiling. I had no idea where I was, which wasn't unusual. I spent over 300 days a year in motels, so I grew accustomed to waking in strange places. I began to remember the evening in flashes: jogging across the field, the peace on the warrior's face, the fury in Dean's eyes, the blood on my hands. I ran my hand across my lower stomach and felt the fabric stiffened by dried blood.

I eased my head to the left. Through the shadows, I saw that I was in my motel room, still in Hays. A gap in the curtain behind me cast a sliver of amber light into the room. I frowned in confusion as I saw the beer bottles on the counter by the sink. A flannel shirt was balled up in the corner on the floor. Someone had changed the sconces by the mirror. I began to realize it was not my room and noticed gentle snoring behind me while someone else was snoring toward my feet. I slowly turned my head to the right and saw Sam Winchester stretched out asleep on the other bed, his face planted in the pillow. I pulled myself up slowly to sitting, careful not to make a sound. Dean Winchester sat on the couch passed out, his arms folded across his chest, his head back. On the coffee table by his feet, stood an empty bottle of bourbon.

Everything was still foggy in my head. I pulled my phone from where it was jammed in the front pocket of my jeans. It was 4:00am, _two days later_. I knew where I was, roughly what happened, but I wasn't back completely yet. Like every other time I had healed someone, I was ravenous, I scanned the dim room for any snacks and spied a box of doughnuts on the table. I inched up from the mattress and picked up my Sketchers on the floor by my feet. I noticed my maroon leather jacket hanging from a hanger on the bathroom door. It looked like one of them had washed off the blood. I grabbed it and put it over my forearm, covering the bloody spot on my shirt, and snatched the box of doughnuts. It took some skill to juggle everything as I opened and closed the door quietly, but neither Winchester stirred. I sneaked back to my room, grateful for the first time that we shared the same motel.

I awoke around twelve hours later, still dressed under the sheets of my bed. My head ached, but I knew it was just from the lack of caffeine. I didn't dream of ghosts or demons or other monsters, but I never did after a healing. I dragged myself out of bed and stretched, then rubbed my eyes and yawned. I always felt light after I released some supe or made someone's body whole. I knew I would feel great after a pot coffee. I brewed up a batch, then showered, rinsing off the sticky smear of blood on my abdomen. As I dressed in a clean pair of slim jeans and a dark gray thermal Henley, I considered leaving town. Then, I realized Marie was still out at the fort. I groaned. I didn't feel like walking four miles, but it was better than explaining why my car was abandoned out by a crime scene. I pulled on my Sketchers and stepped out the door, careful not to walk past the parked Impala.

Drivers cruised around the small city as it neared 5:00pm. I walked purposefully with my hands in my pockets. I should have changed into something less conspicuous, but I loved that jacket, the slim fit, the way the leather had worn without fading the deep maroon color. I also knew it was an act of defiance, a refusal to completely hide and blend in.

Sirens began to wail in the distance, growing louder by the second. I saw an ambulance pull on to Vine Street, rushing toward me with lights flashing. I took a deep breath and kept walking as I saw the emergency vehicle turn into the lot of the convenience store ahead. I wanted to keep walking, but instead, I sighed, then started to jog toward the scene.

I crept around the back of the ambulance that was parked in front of the white concrete block building. As I peeked around the corner, I saw the an EMT giving a large middle-aged man CPR on the pavement. He thrust down on the man's chest with open hands, his elbows locked, as another EMT provided oxygen. A crowd of people had gathered around them, keeping their distance yet curious and concerned. I looked up to the man who didn't look like the others, my reaper. Brad pulled his gaze from the dying man and stared at me blankly.

My heart sank. Not here. Not in front of all these people. I was naked and exposed. If I saved that man, I could end up unconscious, tied to machines in some hospital. I could wake up a prisoner in some lab, people commanding me to heal others. I could come-to in a deserted warehouse with Crowley again, duct tape across my mouth. He had promised that when he met me again he would cut out my tongue.

I had to watch this man die. Hopefully, it was his time, but I never knew for sure. I watched as the spirit emerged from the body, standing beside my reaper. I nodded to them, then turned and walked away. I heard someone start crying behind me.

By the time I reached my car, I was shut down. Any exhilaration or joy I felt from saving Sam had passed. My mind kept reminding me that I let someone die the night I stalked the Winchesters. The voice in my head kept telling me that I was a coward, that I should have saved the dying man back there in that parking lot. I knew they were lies. I knew I couldn't save everyone, but I couldn't silence my irrational guilt and shame, either. In times like this, when I felt the burden of my curse, I could always count on Bobby to quiet my self-loathing and remorse.

But that was before, back when Bobby _was_.

I started up Marie and drove around the back roads until I was nearly lost, trying to clear my head. As I found my way back to town, I could feel the grumble in my stomach. I should eat something. The half box of doughnuts I had eaten 12 hours earlier didn't count as nutrition. I drove around Hays, passing burger joints and Mexican restaurants, but nothing sounded good. I turned the corner past the police station and couldn't believe I had missed it, a bar named "Singers." A smile crept into the corner of my mouth and I parked the car.

From what I could tell, Singers used to be a car dealership. The red brick walls and cement floor made the establishment seem huge and the high, pressed tin ceiling opened the large room up even more. Vintage oil and gasoline signs decorated the room, hanging from the bricks beyond reach. The stage at the back of the room clued me in to the fact that if I was there on a weekend, I would have had live music to entertain me. Instead, a jukebox sat silent in the corner. The only other patrons were a pair of men in their fifties who laughed loudly while drinking their beers at a table in the middle of the room.

I moved up to the padded bar opposite the stage and ordered vodka with a lemon. I went through phases with my booze and had retired the Captain Morgan a few weeks ago. When the wizened little woman poured my drink, I tipped well, knowing that it helped ensure my glass would never be empty for long. I found a seat in a booth a few tables to the right of the door, a good place to see everyone who came in. I downed the vodka quickly and nodded for the bartender to bring me more. After the little woman brought me another vodka with a lemon, I smiled and thanked her, tipping again. She had just moved back behind the counter when the door opened.

It was Dean Winchester.

_Shit._ I thought to myself. I did not want to have this conversation.

I watched as he moved to the bar and ordered a whiskey. As he turned to scope out the place, I tried to look away. His eyes widened and he cocked his head sideways as he spied me.

"Should you be drinking?" He asked as he slid into the other side of the booth.

"I'm great." I said sarcastically.

"You didn't look great when you were bleeding all over the backseat of my car or in a coma for two days in my motel room." He countered.

I shrugged.

"What are you?"

And there it was, the million dollar question.

"I'm a hunter, Dean." I replied calmly as I took another drink of vodka.

"Hunters don't make ghosts explode or heal people or whatever else you did." He argued.

"No, most of them don't, but I do." I reasoned.

"So, are you an angel?"

I laughed. "No. Definitely not."

"A witch?" He continued.

I glared at him. "I'm human, Dean. Do you have any other tests you want to perform on me? You already threw holy water on me while I was unconscious. You could just say 'Thank you.' I did save your ass back there and the life of your brother." I was starting to get annoyed.

He blinked and gave me a half smile. "Thanks." He took a drink of his whiskey and leaned forward. "But really, how did you do that?"

"Look, I'm off the clock and I really don't want to talk about this right now. I came here to get drunk and maybe meet someone. I'm guessing you came here to do the same. My name is Jane." I downed the rest of the vodka. "And now you're two drinks behind."

He nodded and stared at me for a moment, smirking, trying to figure me out. "Right." He finished his drink and reached for my glass. "What can I get you?"

"Vodka."

"Vodka and what?"

"Vodka and...a glass of water?" I answered. He looked surprised.

He brought back a double for each of us and my water, which I drank immediately. He questioned me, "Water?"

"I've been drinking for a long time. I know what works to keep me from wanting to die tomorrow."

"Can you die?" He asked, taking a drink.

"Of course I can die. I'm _human_." I emphasized. I knew I would just have to spell it out for him.

"Here's the deal.. I'm human. I can break my arm or get a hangover or cut my legs when I'm shaving. No, it doesn't heal right away. It takes the same amount of time to heal as it does with anyone else. I'm pretty sure I can die, but who knows?" I admitted. "I can cast out ghosts, demons, destroy any other supernatural creature I've encountered. All I have to do is say the words. I can't tell you what the words are because I never remember them or know what they are ahead of time. I can roughly tell you what they mean, but no, I don't know what language they are in. I can heal people, like I healed your brother. I took on Sam's injury and all the pain that came with it, then, I got better." I took a drink of the vodka.

"Seriously?" His expression was grave as he stared into my eyes.

"Yes." I responded firmly.

"Awesome." He grinned.

"Yeah, sure." I admitted.

His smiled disappeared. "You don't drink demon blood, do you?"

"No." I said, frustrated. "I'm just a human...with extra...abilities."

"Like a mutant."

"I guess."

A wide smile stretched across his face. "So, you're like one of the X-Men."

"I am one of the X-Men." I stated, flatly.

He stared at me for a second, then we both laughed.

"I'm done talking about this tonight. Okay?" I informed him. "My turn to ask questions."

"Okay." He smiled.

Over the next few hours, Dean told me about his life, seeming almost eager to share. I'm sure the whiskey helped, but I could almost feel how lonely he was, too. I learned about how they grew up on the road from one job to another, always aware of the things that go bump in the night. We talked about Led Zeppelin and Cream and why people felt the need to carve on public restroom walls. We discussed life on the road, living out of a car, and how much we hated warm air hand dryers in bathrooms. With him, I could finally talk about the phantoms and the creatures who hid in the shadows. And we laughed about the ridiculousness of our lives.

"Have you always had these, 'abilities'?" He asked.

"No. About ten years ago, I was in the hospital for a week with an infection and almost died. I wanted to die, but I got better." I swallowed another drink, getting the courage to reveal the rest of the story. "I learned that the woman in the bed next to me had terminal cancer. She only had a few days. I watched her two little kids and husband leave the room crying, and I got out of bed and walked over to her. She didn't have much time left, her sunken eyes, pale skin. And, for a split second I wished it was me dying, not her. Then, the words just...came."

"And she lived?" He asked.

I nodded.

"And what about you? Did you pass out or whatever?"

"I was unconscious for three days."

"Wow."

I shrugged.

"And then what? You took off and started hunting?"

I pulled back into myself, remembering. I looked down. In a low, quiet voice I told him the truth. "I spent the next two months in the hospital, healing people who were going to die."

Dean stared down at the last sip of his whiskey, swirling it around in the glass. I knew I said too much.

"I'm drunk." I confessed.

Dean swallowed the last of his drink. "Me, too."

"I can't drive."

"You want me to give you a ride?" He asked, grinning.

"I would love that." I flirted back.

I didn't even acknowledge Marie as we walked out to Dean's car. When he asked where I was staying, I realized I was in trouble. I told him it was north of town on 183 and that I was staying in room 30. He turned to look at me suspiciously and uncomfortable silence filled the Impala.

He pulled into the lot, then turned and parked in front of my room. He turned off he engine, then looked over toward me. His loose flirtation had disappeared. He seemed upset.

"How long have you been tailing us?"

"I had no idea you were staying here when I checked in." .

"How long?" Dean demanded.

"Since yesterday at the police station." I bit my lower lip. "Look, I saw you and Sam and I was... curious."

He looked over at me, then back ahead again, his hands firmly clutching the steering wheel.

Shit. I thought. I knew I was about to lose the moment. I slid across the seat toward him, then reached my right hand under Dean's flannel, my fingertips brushing across the t-shirt which covered his chest. "I wanted to see how a real hunter did it." I fixed my eyes on his. He leaned over to me and we began to kiss, full and open, his hand on the back of my head, pulling me closer. I climbed on top of his lap, straddling him, my fingers running through his short hair. Dean moved his hands behind me, sliding his hands up under my shirt, then back down to my waist as he tugged me closer.

"Ready to come inside?" I teased as he began to kiss my neck.

"We should probably go in the room first." He gasped.


	3. Chapter 3

Ch. 3

Past the Platte Valley, up through the faded yellow grasses of the Sandhills, I tried to separate myself from Dean. The emptiness of the rolling prairie, spotted occasionally by cattle and lone cedar trees, flew past my window. At the banks of the North Loup River, I watched the gray driftwood float past, barren and broken and solitary like me. In elementary school, I learned that 150 years ago, more than half a million people left their homes and traveled west through these flat plains, seeking a better life. Those who didn't make it, sometimes stayed behind, still searching until I set them free. But I wasn't seeking a home and I had no hope of freedom. Though I journeyed through the same green valleys and the same rolling pastures, there was no new life for me. I would always wander with Death.

For the next few months, I tried to drive that night out of my head. The familiar pattern re-emerged, taking possession of my life. From one small Midwestern town to the next, my reaper followed. Brad stood silently by me when I cast out demons, leaving broken bodies behind. As the words from my mouth ignited vampires, the pale faced man waited, lifting souls from drained corpses. I held the dying in my lap, clutching their hands as they departed, too afraid to sacrifice myself for them. I could not heal if I was not safe. I could not save them all.

In dive bars, I swallowed my guilt and shame in vodka-soured tumblers. Every few weeks, I followed a man back to his apartment and lost myself in the rhythm of our bodies. With my eyes closed and back arched, I imagined I was with Dean, making me feel even more alone as I slithered away to my empty motel room. Most nights, I descended into sleep with a booze-induced haze, only to claw up out of the abyss with caffeine and energy supplements the next morning.

It had been months since I had healed anyone. Alcohol drowned out some of the nightmares, but some still sneaked into my sleep each night. I began to consider another trip to rehab, a hospital holiday where my dreams would be sweet and the phantoms would disappear.

I headed west on 36 after spending a few days in Whittington, Illinois. After exorcising a demon there, I had read about a group of "miracle babies," born to infertile women widowed near the time the babies were conceived. In the past year, two such infants were welcomed into the world, exactly nine months after their fathers died in self-inflicted wounds. In addition, five more women were pregnant at various stages after losing their husbands to suicide.

Hunters generally don't believe in miracles.

A cruise up Interstate 29 would have been much faster, but I was drawn back to where I learned to lie and steal, Rankin, Missouri.

Before I was given the burden, I had many homes, and yet none at all. Following my grandmother's death, I was shuffled between my aunt and a few foster parents, never spending more than a year anywhere. When I was in Rankin, I heard horrific tales of abuse, girls locked in sheds by their fathers, boys held in ice baths by their parents to keep the bruising and swelling down. My aunt's mental instability had caused me harm, no doubt, but I knew I had it easy compared to others. I made a left on third street, up the black asphalt street with no curbs, past middle class houses respectfully maintained with verdant green lawns. At the top of the hill, I found the aged Gothic administration building, smaller dormitories from the 1960s flanking both sides. Above the arch of the impressive brick and stone building, it read "Rankin Boys and Girls Home."

I wanted to stop, but sundown wouldn't be for another few hours. An online article told me the campus had been closed for five years, so I knew in the dark of night I could explore the grounds, break into the empty buildings.

It wasn't my fault. There are very few in jails, prisons, and "treatment centers" who are guilty. Nearly all claim innocence and blame someone else for their crime. When the policeman asked if I started the fire, I lied. I told him I had. Cara Lee, the Martins's daughter had lit my bed on fire after she accused me of stealing her boyfriend. What was the point in hoping they would believe me? Linda had not carried me in her womb and I was not the light of Patrick's eyes. As they dug through the ashes of their home, I sat in the back of a squad car, headed to Rankin. I was fourteen.

This time, instead of stopping, I drove past, thinking of the girl I once was, wishing I could comfort her.

Forty-five minutes later, I crossed the Missouri River, muddy and swift as it cut the bluffs of Nebraska from the flat Iowan valley. No matter how many times I crossed the river, I was always awed at the largeness and power of it, how it seemed almost alive.

At the junction of Highways 75 and 2, I made a right toward town and pulled into the parking lot of the the Hampton Inn. Across the highway, a Walmart Supercenter stood defiantly at the top of the hill. Like shunned stepchildren, the newer developments extended south, away from Nebraska City proper. In old newspaper archives, I had read that the discount store and surrounding properties were a source of contention for the residents. The small shops downtown viewed the giant discount store as a threat, a vampire which would suck all the businesses from the heart of the town.

The Hampton Inn stood three stories high dressed in beige stucco. Rarely did I stay anywhere this nice. It always felt wrong, watching people die horrifically, then sleeping in crisp white sheets under a fluffy down comforter. The cost was also part of the problem. My benefactor allowed me about $850 per week for expenses, all on a gold Visa embossed with my name. Accounting for food, fuel, and other incidentals, I could usually only afford dive motels with mildew in the showers. But, it had been a bad few weeks and my reaper kept popping up, carrying away the dead I refused to heal. I needed to stay somewhere nice. In a broken down motel in Illinois, I found a last minute deal on lodging at the Hampton, four nights in a suite for only $250.

For someone whose existence depends on falsehood and omission, I should have been comfortable when I crossed the large sandstone tiles toward the front desk. Honestly, I felt like a fraud, out of place in the bright open room with abstract prints on the buff colored walls. The perky desk clerk swiped my credit card then provided me with a map of the facility, circling the pool and gym before tracing the route to my room with a red pen. I gave her my best grateful, but dismissive smile as I slung my backpack and attache over my shoulder, my garment bag draped over my left arm.

Three stories up, to the left of the elevator doors, I found my room. Overwhelmed by the spacious, clean surroundings, I dropped my bags and fell back on the king size bed. My stomach growled as I gazed up at the popcorn ceiling. It was so white, not dingy and smoke-stained like most places I stayed. Instead of venturing out into the night, I raided the mini-bar, laughing at my dinner: a Rice Krispie Treat, a bag of smoked almonds, and a Snickers bar. After I downed a few little liquor bottles from the mini-fridge, I passed out from exhaustion between the sleek white sheets.

The next morning, I lingered in the hot shower before heading out to the sheriff's department. When I hit the hotel lobby, the lingering aroma of waffles and eggs made me realize I had missed breakfast. I turned toward the breakfast room to see that a white clad chef cleaning up the omelet bar. Instantly, I regretted the extra thirty minutes that I refused to get out of bed.

As I drove into town, I couldn't help but be charmed by how picturesque the place seemed. Nebraska City was an old genteel community with bricked streets downtown and Queen Anne houses peeking through lush hawthorns and elms. Located on the bluffs adjacent to the Missouri River, the town clung to it's historic beginnings, boasting eleven museums in the small community of only 7,200. The real claim to fame, however, was Arbor Farm, the home of the first environmental holiday, Arbor Day. I wondered how the red state of Nebraska could be the real birthplace of a world-wide tree-hugging celebration.

Dressed in a sleek black, stretch cotton suit with straight leg pants and a fitted one-button blazer, my heels clicked on the pavement as I walked toward the Otoe County Sheriff's Department. Adjacent to the simple two-story brick courthouse, Nebraska's oldest public building still in use, the recent addition of the sheriff's office fit seamlessly with the original structure, complete with matching red brick and round, arched windows. I pulled my shoulders back and walked with assurance, making myself believe I was actually Field Office Supervisor Jane Matthews, employed by the NSA. Though all of my badges were fakes, each carried my real name. In my experience, I had discovered that half-truths were easier to maintain than absolute lies.

I removed my reflective aviator sunglasses as I entered the building, then walked to the counter, flashing my badge and introducing myself. The eyes of the short, stocky woman in a tan uniform widened as she directed me to the sheriff's office.

Sometimes I wonder if secretly I'm a teenage boy, at least one attracted to men. Every male I meet, I give either a pass or a fail, a green light or a red. Sheriff Lewis was of the first variety, handsome and tall with graying light brown hair, somewhere in his early fifties. His trim waist and broad shoulders revealed that he worked out, though not too much. Few things were as unattractive as self-obsessed men who spent all their free time underneath a bench press bar. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed a ring on his left hand and guessed that the 5" by 7" picture frame on his desk contained the picture of his wife and kids. I never intentionally slept with married men.

"Sheriff Lewis, I'm Field Office Supervisor Jane Matthews with the NSA. I'm here about the death of Corporal Timothy Allsop." I introduced myself as I flashed my badge.

Surprise flickered in his eyes as he stood and shook my hand. "Wow. NSA? Why would the NSA be investigating a suicide?" He motioned for me to sit.

"We are led to believe that his death is connected with the other soldiers' alleged suicides." I wondered how open the sheriff would be with me. Some of the men in small town law enforcement were hostile toward me, a woman, outranking them and pulling authority. Although I had flirted and crossed a few lines to get information in the past, I had never gone so far as having sex with someone to gain access to an investigation. With Sheriff Lewis, I might make an exception.

"Connected how?" He questioned me, confused.

"We have evidence which appears to point toward psychological terrorism by an underground Muslim fundamentalist cell. Creating the illusion of suicide not only eliminates the soldier, but also destroys their families." Sadly, since 9/11, it was easy to convince people that terrorists were behind everything evil in the world.

"Christ." He responded, pulling his right hand down his face. "What do you need from us?"

"First of all, I would like to examine the body of Corporal Allsop, then I need copies of all of the police reports from the alleged suicides."

"The police reports won't be a problem," He picked up the phone and directed the deputy to begin to make copies. "But the body is in Lincoln at the state coroners office. We're too small of a county to have our own coroner and the capital is just 45 miles up the road. I can get the address and information for you if you like."

"I would appreciate that."

With a stack of copies in the front seat of the car, I cruised downtown, past the Greek, Gothic, and Georgian Revival buildings. I frowned to see so many "FOR RENT" signs in the windows. Apparently, Walmart had devoured some of the small businesses as foretold. I made a right at the western wear store and found a tiny bright pink building which boasted amazing Mexican food.

The little cafe was packed with mostly Hispanic customers, all conversing in Spanish. The full dining area was a mixed blessing. Like most Mexican food joints in Nebraska, the race of the patrons revealed that the servings would be plentiful and the cuisine excellent. However, the lack of seating meant I either would dine inside my car or go back to the hotel. Within minutes, I was back in my room at the Hampton, carefully eating flautas and refried beans while I read the police reports.

Each of the vics were men in their thirties who had enlisted after the terrorist attacks in 2001. They all belonged to a National Guard Unit which had returned from its second tour in Afghanistan a year and a half ago. Corporal Allsop, like the other victims, was found with his throat slit, seemingly self-inflicted. Only the victims' fingerprints were found on each of the knives used and there were no signs of struggle. In interviews conducted by the sheriff deputies, families and friends of the victims reported that each man had been despondent, depressed, and withdrawn.

I closed the empty Stryofoam container from the Mexican restaurant and dropped it in the trash.

PTSD could easily explain the alleged suicides. The local law enforcement agency hadn't been lazy in their police work, they just didn't look for supernatural patterns like I did. What about the "miracle" babies?

I flipped open my laptop and did a quick internet search. I found the internet archive from the Nebraska City News-Press. Twenty-four men came home from Afghanistan last year. Considering their age, I suspected there would be at least a half dozen babies born exactly nine months later. Just like after World War II, usually when deployments ended pregnancies began. I looked through the birth announcements, but no baby boom followed the return of the soldiers. It was possible that the men were unmarried, unattached, and responsible when it came to contraception, but that didn't explain the babies who were born to the soldiers' widows. Another search told me that there was only OB/GYN clinic in town, Comprehensive Obstetrics and Gynecology.

I looked at my watch. It was already 3:30pm. If I wanted to learn anything about the suspect fertility among the soldiers' families, then I would have to hurry. I rushed out of the hotel room and fired up Marie.

One block to the north of Central Avenue, I found the women's clinic. I had to chuckle to myself as I stood outside of the building that housed Comprehensive Obstetrics. Although I didn't know the structure's history, it obviously was once a church, a Catholic Church if I had to guess. Built in the Romanesque Revival style, it stood solidly in red brick with a single bell tower to the right. The stained glass in the three arched windows above had been replaced with clear glass and compound columned arches set on beltways adorned the tower. I was glad to see the structure preserved after it was abandoned by the clergy, but I still felt guilty entering with the intent to deceive.

I walked directly to the reception desk situated to the left of a large stairway that ascended to the second floor. A woman with a welcoming face and shiny dark brown hair cut neatly into a bob greeted me and asked if I had an appointment. I flashed by badge and introduced myself, asking to speak to someone who could help me obtain patient and personnel records. The receptionist's jaw-dropped as she pointed me upstairs to the right. I responded to the shock calmly and politely, well-accustomed to the speechlessness which resulted from the flash of federal ID.

A short woman in her mid-fifties with short light blond hair and carefully applied makeup met me at the door.

"I'm sorry, ma'am. The patient area is behind you." She pointed to the few chairs against the wall behind me. I turned my head to see a heavily pregnant woman peek at me over a _Baby First_ magazine.

Reaching in my pocket, I removed my badge. "I'm Field Office Supervisor Jane Matthews with the NSA." I flashed a quick, disarming smile. "I'm currently running an investigation into the recent military suicides here in Nebraska City. I need the patient records for these seven women." I handed her a slip of paper. "And I also need the personnel files for everyone employed in this office in the past two years."

She stared at me speechless, then stammered, "I can get you the personnel records right away, but..."

I fixed my eyes on hers. "But..."

"Uh, you know that I can't give your the patient records without a court order." She leaned toward me and whispered, "You know, the federal HIPPA law?"

I shook my head and smiled at her. "Right. I'm glad to see you maintaining such professionalism in the little town of Nebraska City." I condescended. "Unfortunately, if I have to wait for a court order—actually, seven of them—I will have to post my agents inside your waiting room to ensure that the records don't slip out of the building. Court orders can take a while, you understand." I paused for effect. "Sadly, I'm the only female in the office, so there will be men here, recording the name and address of each patient as she enters and leaves the clinic. I'm sure that won't be very comfortable, this being a gynecologist office and all, but if we are being strict about the rules..." I waited for her response.

She swallowed and blinked, then sputtered, "I supposed if you sign for them, it should be okay, you being a federal agent and everything." She looked scared, but I didn't flinch.

"I would be very grateful." I responded with a smile.

As I waited, I gazed up and noticed the ceiling, still frescoed with puffy white clouds in a sea of robin's egg blue. I wondered what the local diocese thought about doctors dispersing contraception on the high altar of the former church.

After about ten minutes, I headed down the stairs with a cardboard filing box full of records, doing my best not to appear smug. I knew that the thing responsible for the deaths hid somewhere in my hands. As I descended the stairs, I saw two men walk through the door dressed in suits. I stared at the top of their heads, their faces coming into better view with each step down. I sighed and gave Sam and Dean an empty smile as recognition flashed on their faces.

I stopped on the next to last stair, ensuring that I was above them when I spoke. "Agent Bonham, Agent Plant. I appreciate you for coming so quickly, but you aren't needed here after all."

Dean blurted out. "What?"

Sam stared at me, confused.

"The staff here has been quite helpful and forthcoming." I stated flatly to Sam. Turning my attention to Dean, I continued. "I have all the information that we need right here." I nodded my head toward the box, my gaze fixed on Dean. "If you will follow me, I will debrief you at the hotel."

Dean smirked. "Okay." The men shrugged at each other, then followed me out the door.

I didn't stop to explain, but instead continued to my car which was angle parked on the side of the clinic. I carefully set the box on the roof of the car and reached in my jacket pocket for the keys. Sam stopped on the sidewalk, while Dean walked up to me as I unlocked my Camero's door.

"What the hell was that about?" He demanded.

I smiled, trying to be conciliatory. "Sorry about that. I didn't expect you guys here. But really, I have this one. I don't need any help." I nearly hit Dean with the car door as I opened it, reaching in and putting the box on the passenger seat.

"You 'have this one'?" Dean obviously was offended.

I leaned across the top of the opened car door toward Dean. "I mean," I searched for the right words. "I got this. I'm pretty sure I know what is killing these men and when I look through these files, I will find out where to find her. If you will excuse me, I have a lot of reading to do, but it was good to see you both." I glanced over at Sam and smiled, then got into my car, started her up, and pulled away.

Sam and Dean stood there staring at me as I drove off.

Cruising south on 11th street, I shook my head and grinned. Something told me that the Winchesters weren't used to being told no. My eyes shifted from the road to my rear view mirror as I noticed the black Impala following me. I rolled my eyes. Without hesitation, I continued back to the Hampton and parked, watching as Dean and Sam stopped the car out in the street. Before I grabbed the box out of the passenger side, I waved and smiled at them, then turned my back and walked inside.

As I shut the door to my room behind me, I closed my eyes and sighed, the filing box still in my hands. For months, I had tried to get Dean Winchester out of my head, but there he was again. Instead of just seeing his face when I was intertwined with another man's body, here he was outside my hotel, waiting. For a moment, I let myself remember that night back in Hays, the giving and taking, his hot breath on my neck, his face between my breasts as I moaned.

I set the box down on the bed, then walked into the bathroom and splashed cool water on my face.

I needed to focus. I went to the mini-fridge to grab a bottle. _Shit._ There was only one left, a bright-blue bottle of raspberry vodka. How many had I had the night before? The shot made me gag, likely because of a karaoke incident a few years earlier that I only half remember. I would never forget, however, the hours I slept on the motel bathroom floor, shivering and using a towel as a blanket in-between violent retching. I usually tried to take care of myself better than that, but once in a while the drinking got out of control.

After I hung my suit up and put it back in my garment bag, I put on a black tank top and walked to the window. The Impala was gone. I wasn't sure if I was glad or disappointed. Turning back to face the room, I stared at the box on the bed. I had no desire to study through all the files. _How long ago was lunch? _Although I knew the fridge was empty, I checked again. Stalling, I decided to pull on a pair of jeans and walk up to Walmart, well aware that I would be reading until late that night.

As I exited the hotel, I glanced around the parking lot. I groaned as I saw the Impala in one of the stalls. Dean stared back at me and waved. I smiled back. Since he was alone, I assumed he had taken Sam back to their room to continue the investigation online. Feigning confidence, I walked directly to the driver's side and leaned in on the open window.

"You do realize that it's creepy for you to sit out here, watching my every move." I challenged him.

He nodded, "Kind of like how you followed us around in Kansas for two days?"

I smirked. "Yep. Creepy like that." I paused before stepping away from the car, crossing the highway and heading up the hill. He yelled something out the window as I hurried across the road. I resisted the urge to turn and look at him.

On my way back from the Supercenter, I noticed the Impala hadn't moved. With two plastic sacks in my hands, I gave Dean another smile as I walked past, entering the hotel without saying another word.

I stopped at the front desk, giving the twenty-something male clerk my best nervous look. "I don't mean to be a bother, but, um, if you could help me?"

"Sure! What do you need?" He leaned forward, concerned.

"There's a scary guy in the parking lot that I think followed me here from downtown. I'm pretty sure that I'm safe in the hotel, but I don't know, it still makes me a little nervous. You know?" I shifted around, uncomfortably.

His expression turned grave. "What's he driving?"

"A black Impala. He looks dangerous."

"I'll take care of it." He reassured me.

I gave him a grateful smile. "Thank you. I really mean it."

It was hard not to laugh as I walked to the elevator. When I got into my room, I peered out the window at Dean's car. I poured myself some rum and stared down at the parking lot. Within minutes, a white and black Dodge Charger pulled in, red and blue lights flashing. After it parked behind the Impala, the desk clerk stepped outside of the hotel, his arms crossed. For several minutes, the officer stood beside the Impala, apparently conversing with Dean. It occurred to me that any minute he could pull out a fake fed ID. I felt stupid for calling him in. However, a few moments later, the policeman pulled away, Dean Winchester following in the black Chevrolet. Triumphant and grinning, I finished my drink, sat on the bed, opened the filing box, and began to read.

Over the past decade, I had spent months and months in various hospitals. When I took away the shadow of death from someone, I only had a short window of time until the darkness fell on me. Thirty seconds was barely enough time to get back to my room, so I had to plan each healing carefully. When I was conscious, I crept through the hospital in the middle of the night, reading medical records of the patients around me. I became familiar with the diagnoses, shorthand nurses notes, and prognoses. Only the dying compelled me to temporarily leave the living.

Consequently, I read the records of the obstetrics patients with relative ease. Behind the birth records and prenatal appointments paperwork, I found that all of the women were in good health with no hormonal or physical abnormalities. Further, all tests and procedures confirmed that the women were not the cause of the infertility. Without naming the husbands specifically, the physician orders included a referral to the fertility specialist in-house, Dr. Erika Vanadis.

Thinking the name sounded familiar, I reached over and grabbed my laptop off the end table. After a quick search, I found out why: Vanadis was another name for Freyja, the Norse Goddess of Fertility...and War. Back in Illinois, when I first read about the case, I assumed that a fertility goddess of some type was to blame, but the military connection made no sense until now. I continued reading the entry:

Freyja (meaning "Lady" in Old Norse) was the primary goddess of the Nordic people. She was responsible for love, fertility, battle, and death. She rode a chariot drawn by cats and was often accompanied by a boar. As the Queen of the Valkyries, she chose one half of slain warriors to join her in the Folkvangar, her great hall in the afterlife.

I grabbed the filing box and yanked folders out, quickly dropping them on the bed until I found the personnel record of Erika Vanadis. As I read her curriculum vitae, I learned she had the perfect credentials: undergraduate at John Hopkins, Doctor of Medicine from George Washington University, residency at the Mayo Clinic. Her ID photos made me jealous. While most people looked like terrorists in DMV pictures, she looked radiant, her honey blond hair draped gently across her shoulders, curling slightly at the ends. Even in the poor lighting, she appeared every bit a goddess, her features fine with startling blue eyes. She didn't smile, but instead looked intently at the camera, the corner of her mouth hinting at a grin. Comprehensive Obstetrics hired her just over a year ago. I scanned the remaining documents and found her address at 1024 Pine Lake Road. I glanced at the clock beside the bed. It was 11:30p. I wondered if I would find her at home.

I slid my legs off the bed to stand and stretch, instantly feeling the rush to head. Blinking my eyes into focus, I turned and looked at the bottle on the dresser. The rum was half gone. Had I eaten? I trudged over to the mini-fridge, pulled out an Amy's frozen bean and rice burrito, then put it in the microwave. As the seconds counted down on the electronic display, I realized there was no way I was hunting Freyja that night. After finishing the burrito, I downed half a bottle of Gatorade and fell fast asleep.

Twelve hours later, the sunlight spilling through the gap in the curtains pried open my eyes. Sometimes the alcohol prevented me from dreaming, but it was not one of those nights. Women with ripped open throats and men with spilled entrails called me a selfish coward. I struggled to free myself from the ropes which bound my hands behind my back. Strong and sticky duct tape prevented me from speaking as demons sliced open my flesh.

Where was I? I scanned the room and remembered the case of the soldiers with slit throats. As I picked up my cell phone from the night stand, I thought about the clerk's call to the police. I smirked until I realized it was almost 11:00am. Damn it. As I lay there, trying to drag myself out of bed, I wondered if I could get Freyja alone at the clinic. It would be much simpler than breaking into her house, though I could if I needed to.

Dressed in a charcoal gray blazer and slacks, identical to the black one from the previous day, I slid the file box into the passenger seat of Marie. Under the guise of routine questioning, I planned on cornering the Norse goddess in her office. As a fake fed, I had no obligation to return the medical or personnel files. If and when the clinic learned of my forged ID, the woman in the records department would likely be fired and possibly sued. My burden was to alleviate suffering, not cause more.

Moments later at Comprehensive Obstetrics and Gynecology, a frightened look on the receptionist's face greeted me as I entered the glass double doors. I gave a brief smile in attempt to ease her apprehension as I returned the filing box.

"I need to speak to Dr. Vanadis, please."

"She's not in today. She never works Fridays." The receptionist leaned forward and said in a whisper. "She always has parties on Friday nights. She's probably at her house getting ready for one right now."

"Thank you very much."

Of course she didn't work on Fridays. The ancients named the day after her. I wondered how big the soiree would be. As I cruised past First Corso, I rolled my eyes at the small city ostentatious enough to name its roads "street" in Italian.

Far out on Pine Lake Road, I found Freyja's house. Surprisingly, instead of a gaudy Victorian or Queen Anne estate, the home was clean, refined, and modernist with redwood lap siding. From my stopped car, I watched as a flurry of white uniformed staff moved to and from a cleaning van and a catering truck. I debated going up to the house, but I didn't see any signs of the goddess and I had already drawn too much attention to myself by showing up at the clinic as a NSA agent. I knew it was safer to catch a creature by surprise.

After dark, I returned to the house and parked my Camero amongst the procession of silver and black luxury cars lining the asphalt road. My heels clicked on the concrete as I walked up the drive toward the front door. I knew the shoes were a poor choice for a huntress. I should be wearing something that gave me better balance, that I could fight in, run in. I was playing the odds. The black sandals with a 3 ½" heel and slight platform gave me power, an unspoken confidence and authority. There were only a few times in the past decade when I needed to quickly escape or defend myself. Pretending to be the head bitch in charge, however, was a game I played frequently. Like Dorothy's fabled slippers, a sexy pair of heels magically transported me into another world full of country clubs and five star restaurants.

When I arrived at the front door, a man in a white uniform greeted me. I gave him a simple nod and a thanks. Keeping my posture perfect, my movements smooth and purposeful, I imagined that I was one of them, a corporate lawyer who lived in a downtown loft in the state capital or a trophy wife who dabbled in philanthropy. Dispersed between a series of rooms floored with polished concrete, I found beautiful people sitting on minimalist furniture, drinking high-end liquor from fragile glasses. I scanned the middle-aged men with twenty-something women sitting at the contemporary table in the dining room, but didn't see the goddess I was looking for.

With a tulip-shaped whiskey glass in one hand, I crept through room after room, trying to avoid any conversation with others. I had no cover story, so if anyone asked, I would have to be vague. Where was she? When I arrived, I had guessed that the sleek gold Jaguar XJ parked in front of the garage belonged to Freyja, but she was nowhere to be found.

I wandered into the kitchen, cold and utilitarian in black walnut and stainless steel. Men and women in starched white shirts, black slacks, and dark green ties danced around each other, arranging Hors D'Oeuvres on gleaming silver trays. Every minute or two, another server jetted into the kitchen, exchanging an empty platter for one which was full. I stood by the doorway, holding my nearly empty tumbler as one tall server with shoulder length brown hair clumsily bumped into nearly everyone, his back toward me. Just before he turned, I realized it was Sam. He gave me an embarrassed half-smile as I rolled my eyes at him.

As he began to walk toward me, another server bumped into me as he entered the room, nearly spilling his sliver serving tray. I heard him exclaim, "Son of a bitch! Sorry!"

It was Dean. He wore the same uniform as his brother, as the rest of the catering crew.

"Wow." He stood looking me over in my black sleeveless gown.

Afraid I would blush, I quickly got to business. "Have you found her yet, Freyja?" I shifted my questioning eyes from Dean to Sam.

Dean answered, "Not yet. It doesn't sound like anyone's seen her."

"I'll find her." I was annoyed. "Please don't get yourselves hurt." I stared at Sam and his cheeks reddened, then I turned back to Dean.

Something possessed me and I let go. I stepped to Dean and kissed him gently, then pulled back and gave him a smirk. He almost dropped the tray again, then started to grin back at me. I had no idea what the hell I was doing.

Just then, a black and pink pot-bellied pig about two feet tall and weighing close to 200 lbs. sauntered into the kitchen, heading toward the kitchen counter. The three of us stared speechlessly as it walked up to one of the caterers who began tossing it crostini and mini crab cakes.

"Seriously?" Sam asked.

The server explained to the brothers, "We're supposed to feed it."

The three of stared at each other for a minute, confused.

"I'll let you boys get back to work, then. It looks like Babe is hungry." I said as I hurried out of the room, looking for a drink as much as I was searching for a Viking goddess.

Moving back into the living room, I went straight to the bar in the corner, ordering another tumbler of Chairman's Reserve. As I sipped the smooth liquor, I scanned the room.

Then, I saw her, standing in the small crowd at my right, about 15 feet away. She wore a white silk halter gown with an open back and high slit up the thigh. She even appeared immortal, ethereal as the light seemed to radiate off her skin. With her hair up in a loose side chignon, I let my eyes slide from the slope of her neck across her shoulders, then down her back. Holy shit. I was fantasizing about her. I gulped my drink waiting for the burn that didn't come from the high-priced booze. As I tried to rid myself of the naked images of Freyja which flashed in my head, I allowed myself to remember Dean, hoping he would get my mind off of the goddess. Unfortunately, this only led to visions of a threesome, kissing her small pink mouth with Dean behind me, dragging his rough hands down to my waist. I turned back toward the bar and closed my eyes.

Ah shit. I should have expected this. I was tracking a sex goddess, after all.

"First time here, huh?" I opened my eyes to see the bartender smiling at me. He was in his early thirties, with short dark hair and a trim beard. As he poured more liquor into my glass, he said, "Don't be embarrassed, it happens to all of us. No one can resist her."

I said nothing. I knew I needed to find out a way to get her away from the crowd. I glanced back to see guests begin to move toward her. My eyes went back to the bartender. He looked me up and down with a slight smile in the corner of his mouth.

"Lucky for you, I think you could get her alone." He said.

I waited for him to give me his number or at least a wink, but he didn't. I realized he was serious. I gave him a nod and a slight smile back before turning toward Freyja again. I exhaled, then finished off the drink.

Sometimes I was just like any other woman. I became afraid, embarrassed, insecure. I knew I looked good, the black fabric clinging around my body, my legs long and lean. I inhaled and remembered that I held the keys to life and death in my hands. I decided destinies and had power over the powerful. Monsters cowered when I spoke and gods shattered before me. I pulled my posture up and moved toward her, knowing that it was I, not her, who gave life and took it away.

I slid between the men in custom suits and gowned women who now gathered around her, dropping my shoulders and shifting my hips. With the fingertips of my right hand, I touched her upper arm, her pale skin in complete contrast with my black-brown painted nails. I stretched my mouth inches away from her ear, leaning in and my body grazing her. I whispered, "Can I see you in private?"

My eyes now fixed on her icy blue irises, I waited for her answer. Intrigued, she reached for my hand, excusing herself as she led me out of the room, down the hall into the master bedroom. After we entered, she let go of me and closed the door behind me.

The master suite was cold and stark like every other room, the polished concrete floor like glass underneath my feet. Against the naked plate glass window which stretched across the entire outside wall, a king size mattress waited, covered with a down comforter and a polar bear hide. She stepped toward me again and ice shot through my veins. A goddess was on the verge of seducing me and I had been stupid enough to enter her lair.

"Freyja," I spit out moments before she was able to touch me again.

"Huntress," a slight Nordic accent slipped into her speech. "Are you here for me to put a child in your womb, the son of that hunter in my kitchen?"

"What?" I stammered. "No!" Dean. She was talking about Dean. How did she know about Dean? Why would she think I wanted his child? No! I wanted to spit out the words, the unintelligible syllables that would cast her out of this world into death, but only silence came forth from my mouth.

She glided toward me as I stood paralyzed, as she put her hands on the side of my face, questioning me.

"None of those other women would ask. Are you brave enough to ask, huntress?" She closed her eyes and moved her mouth toward mine.

The door burst open. Sam and Dean rushed into the room, Sam holding a silver serving tray with a domed lid. Freyja snapped her eyes open, jutting her arm out causing the tray to fly across the room, dumping its contents in the corner by the window.

She let go of my face and stepped toward Dean, studying him. "Are you here to sacrifice your life for me, soldier?" Freyja reached up and put her right hand on the side of his face as she smiled sweetly. "Are you going to give her your heir as you follow me to my banquet hall? Are you ready to spend eternity feasting...fucking...and fighting?" The Nordic goddess began to inch toward his lips.

"_Akn k·adm thmuthu·n u·k·achd e·shrim thphlu!_" The words flew out of mouth. We watched as she exploded in a flash of light, falling across the room like glittering snowflakes, melting before they reached the concrete floor.

Confused, Sam was the first to speak. "That's it?"

I shrugged.

Dean answered, putting his hands on his hips. "Yep. That's it."

"Huh." Sam studied the room.

"What's that over there?" I nodded to the small hatchet in the corner by the serving tray, an ooze of red on its blade.

"An ax with pig's blood." Dean replied. "It would have killed her, probably."

"Huh." I uttered. "That's fucking metal." I turned and grinned at Dean.

He answered smugly. "Right?"

"You wanna go get a beer or something?" Sam suggested. "I kind of owe you for..."

"Saving your ass in Hays?" I finished.

"Something like that." He smiled and folded his arms across his chest.

"I'm hungry." Dean commented. "We could get burgers."

"No." I shook my head. "Have you tasted the booze they are serving out there?" I pointed to the door. "I'm not going into a dumpy bar and drinking shit liquor when I could have that."

"You want to crash the party of someone you just killed?" Dean looked at me incredulously.

"Do you see a body, Dean?" Sam asked, gazing around the room.

"Oh. Right." Dean shrugged then grinned, "Let's party."


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

Considering I sat in a black high-backed armchair, I should have been more comfortable. With a half-full wine glass in one hand, I used my other to nervously stroke the soft dark leather stretched across the chair's overstuffed arms. To my right, Sam lounged on the matching sofa and tipped back a bottle of Brooklyn Lager. "Wow." He studied the label. "This is really good."

In a chair identical to mine, Dean popped another golden pastry in his mouth. "I have no idea what this is, but it's amazing." He washed it down with a sip of beer, then set the bottle on the sleek walnut coffee table that separated us.

"It's spanokopita, I think." I finished the cabernet sauvignon in my glass.

"'Spano' _what_?" Dean asked, then picked up a smoked salmon crisp from the silver tray on the table.

"Spanokopita." I repeated.

"How do you know that?" Dean inquired through a mouthful of food.

"No idea." I reached for the private reserve green bottle and poured myself more wine. Moments earlier we found the empty library, an inviting sofa and chairs in a room filled with books. In addition to hundreds of novels, medical encyclopedias, and miscellaneous tomes on the shelves, I spied a few bottles of booze and some empty upturned tumblers.

"You get many cases like this?" Sam pulled his legs up on the sofa. "High class homes and expensive liquor?"

"Mostly just abandoned warehouses and knockoff rum. What about you guys?"

Dean opened another beer, then took off his green tie, unbuttoning the top of his white shirt. "Same here. We've been in places this nice a few times, though."

"That goddess of truth thing. Her place was great, other than the slaughterhouse in the basement." Sam added, frowning and meeting eyes with Dean.

"Ew." I responded.

"It was pretty 'ew.'" Dean concurred. "The worst part of that case was learning everyone's secrets, having people say what they really think of you."

"Sounds horrific." I agreed. I didn't even know what I thought of the Winchesters. There was something about them, something familiar and warm like the flannel shirts I'd seen them wearing back in Hays. In our brief encounters, I noticed the gentleness in the giant who was Sam Winchester. For a brief moment when I took death away from him, I could feel his longing for a life away from the monsters. And yet, I didn't lie to myself. I knew he was a stranger.

I locked eyes with Dean for a second, then I reached for the wine bottle, pretending to read the label. The elder Winchester was the one who scared me. For months, I had relived our night together in my mind, our bodies moving, both sticky and slick. I wanted to leave him there, keep him as the one who still caused me to shiver when I thought of his breath moving down my abdomen. I refused to think of him as anything more, but I didn't need a goddess to keep me from lying to myself. My almost father had gushed about what a good man Dean was, fiercely loyal, loving, and selfless. A bit of Bobby hid in Dean's eyes which made me feel uneasy in my easy chair.

"So, have you burned any bones lately?" I asked, trying to split my attention between the two of them.

Sam was the first to respond. "Yeah?" He looked at Dean. "Three or four weeks ago, right?"

"That jealous husband thing in Indiana." Dean conferred. He had finally stopped eating.

Sam slid down on the sofa, stretching out. "What about you? Healed anyone lately?"

No. No I hadn't. Because I'm a coward and selfish and only think of myself. I took a long drink from the delicate wine glass. "No."

Dean started to say something, but I interrupted him.

"You guys didn't believe me, did you? You didn't think I could handle her on my own." I glared at Dean, then Sam.

They both started making excuses. "No." "It's not that-" "I mean-" "You're obviously capable-."

"Right." I finished the wine in my glass, then stood up. _Goddammit Jane!_ I knew I was picking a fight over nothing. I needed to get out of there. They weren't my friends and they weren't my family. I grabbed the nearly empty bottle of wine, then headed toward the door. "It's been fun. See you the next time you tag along on one of my cases."

"Oh come on..." I heard Dean utter. I turned back to see them both standing. 

Sam began to reason, "When was the last time you saw a hunter? Has it been months? A year? There aren't many of us left."

_How long had it been?_ I hadn't seen any other hunters since I saw the two of them in Hays. Before then? Had I seen any since Bobby? Even back when he rerouted the hunter traffic to avoid me, I would still run into one every month or so.

Dean sounded annoyed, "Look, it's been a bad few years and we've lost a lot of people. I'm sorry if we 'tagged along' or insulted you or whatever." He paused, his hands on his hips, then he met my eyes. "We just wanted to make sure you made it through the job, okay?" Dean sat and returned to his beer.

Shit.

"Yeah, okay." I walked back to the chair and kicked off my shoes before sitting down. "Dammit. Sorry." I was such an asshole.

Sam sat down again on the sofa, replying gently, "And thanks for healing me or whatever. And sorry for asking you about if you'd healed anyone."

"It's fine." I shrugged and looked around the room.

Then, Dean spoke, his voice quieter than before.

"She can't heal anyone, Sammy, not if there isn't anyone there to take care of her." I met eyes with him and suddenly I felt insecure, naked, alone.

I ignored Dean and glanced over at Sam.. "Do you boys have any good stories? Because really, this party is starting to suck." I poured the rest of the wine into my glass, then headed toward the liquor on the shelf, grabbing three tumblers and bringing a bottle back with me.

"Uh, one time Dean caught ghost sickness and was scared of _everything._" Sam shared.

I set the glasses down, filling each with two fingers of Talisker whiskey. "Yes, please tell." I eyed Dean, who began to protest immediately.

"No." He frowned at Sam, then looked at me. "It's nothing. You don't want to hear it." Dean reached for the glass of liquor.

"Actually, I really do." I had a sip of whiskey, then leaned back in the chair.

"Okay, so we were on a case where people were being scared to death-" Sam began before his brother interrupted him.

Dean turned back to Sam. "No. Really? Sammy, no." Then, started winced before he tipped back the glass.

Sam leaned forward on the couch toward me, obviously enjoying the embarrassment he was going to cause his brother. "So these people were scared to death, right? But it wasn't like they saw something scary. It was like they caught a cold or something, like a virus of fear-" Dean covered his face with his hand.

I laughed. Sam laughed and Dean laughed. For the next few hours, the Winchesters recounted stories to me of life on the road, ridding the world of evil. Sam cackled. I watched the wrinkles in the corners of Dean's eyes when he smiled. They called each other names and even with the giggling and the booze, I knew I was only watching something, not a part of it. Finally, I excused myself. I needed to pee.

I was startled by the quiet when I left the room. No longer did voices echo through the hallway. The steady murmur of guests had retreated into the night. Farther down the empty corridor, I found the bathroom, still gleaming in black subway tiles. Before I returned to the Winchesters, I checked the living room and found most of the partiers had disappeared, leaving only pairs making out on the couches, pressed up against the walls.

"Looks like the party is over." I announced, entering the study.

"What?" Dean jerked his head toward me, looking guilty.

"Most of the guests have left, other than those necking in the living room."

"Nice." He replied, then glanced over at Sam.

"Yeah," Sam stood up. "I was thinking I should head out anyway." He stretched, his movements exaggerated. He looked at Dean from the corner of his eyes.

"I should go, too." I knew I should stop when I was just tipsy, not sloppy drunk. Dean and I eyed each other, but said nothing.

By the time we reached the living room, those who remained were half clothed and writhing. I hid my embarrassment by saying something sarcastic as we walked out the door. I carried my heels in my hand, nearly shivering in my sleeveless dress, my bare feet cold on the rough pavement. Thankfully, the alcohol still warmed my blood a little.

At the end of the drive, Dean and Sam headed right.

"I'm parked this way, so I guess I'll be seeing you two another time." I smiled as I gestured left, grateful for the little bit of time I had to feel normal, to feel less alone.

They both stopped. Dean suggested, "We can give you a ride to your hotel." He motioned toward the Impala a few hundred yards down the road.

"I'm fine. Really. Not even that drunk." I responded. "But thanks."

Dean grinned. "I'm not letting you go by yourself."

"Course not." I smirked, then met eyes with Sam. "Good to see you again, Sam."

"Yeah, you too, Jane." He took the keys from Dean and waved as he left.

When we reached Marie, he commented. "Nice ride."

"I like it." I stepped toward the driver's side.

"I can drive."

"Uh, no. No one drives her but me." I notified him.

He nodded with a smile.

We headed down the black asphalt in silence on our way to my hotel. Dean and I had been down this road before. His neat white shirt would end up crumpled on the floor. His hands would explore every inch of my skin. I didn't feel the need to start up small talk.

"Where did you get her?" He asked.

I hesitated. "My...uncle... gave it to me."

"I worked on one of these once." Dean began. "It's a 1967, right?"

"Yep." I knew where he was taking this.

"A car just like this sat in this old junkyard for as long as I can remember. Suddenly, the guy who owned the place starts working on it, replacing everything under the hood, the interior, the works. The old man spent almost a year in the garage with it, getting it just right before giving it a sharp new paint job, this exact color. Then, it was just gone. He told me he sold it."

Under the amber glow of a street light, I made a right on to 11th street and said nothing.

"That must have been what, seven, eight years ago?" He turned toward me, his face serious. "Why do I not know you?"

_Not now, Dean. Don't ruin it._ "That's a question for Bobby, not me." I admitted.

"Bobby's dead."

"I know." I wasn't there to save Bobby. I wished Dean would stop talking. We were almost there. I could see the hotel a few blocks away in the darkness, the name illuminated on the top floor.

"Why didn't he ever say anything about you?" He interrogated me. "Did you know about us?"

I pulled into the lot and parked, then turned off the car. "Of course, I did. Bobby bragged about you so much I wanted to puke."

Dean beamed with pride. "He did? Really?"

"Yeah." I got out of the car and started toward the door, my feet still bare. As Dean walked beside me, I knew he wanted to keep talking about Bobby, but I didn't. I glanced through the sliding glass doors and chuckled.

"What's so funny?" He asked.

"That's the desk clerk from yesterday, the one I asked to call the cops on you."

"That was a dick move, by the way." Dean reached his right arm around my waist as we entered the hotel. He gave the scowling young man a wide smile and greeted him. "Hi, there."

When the elevator doors closed, I laughed. "You're an ass."

He turned toward me and pulled me up against him. "But you like me."

"Do I?" The doors opened and I eased away from him, heading down to the room, Dean following behind.

As the door to my room shut behind him, Dean looked surprised. "Wow. This place is nice."

I turned around to him and teased, "You know what else is nice? Me." I slowly began to unbutton his white shirt.

Consciousness crept over me before sunrise. I clung to my dreams of Dean, groaning and moving and my lips on him as he moaned. I squeezed my eyes shut in the hope that I would slip back into sleep, to feel the weight of him on top of me, inhale the smell of him still on my skin. In the silence of the room, I realized I could I hear him breathing in the bed beside me. I wasn't trying to climb back into a fantasy; I was reliving the night before.

For a moment, I held on, remembering. I fought the urge to nestle up next to him, to fall back asleep against his warm body. As much as I wanted to use him again, to let him use me, I knew I hoped for more. I hungered for the man who called his brother names and yet fiercely protected him. I ached for the one who would sacrifice everything for those he loved, who could slash and kill like a warrior, yet somehow never lost his playful adolescence.

But we were hunters sharing a bed and a night of ecstasy. Nothing else. In the deep shadows of the room, I could see Dean lying on his stomach, the side of his face pressed on the pillow. I had to get the hell out of there. I needed to avoid the pathetic morning ritual of "Hey, thanks for the ride." Instead of having nothing to say to him, I was afraid I would say too much.

I inched my legs off the bed, one after another, careful not to wake Dean. I eased up to sitting, releasing my supporting hand from the mattress without a squeak. For a second I lingered, knowing only loneliness and death waited for me outside the hotel room door. I exhaled silently, then began lifting myself off the bed.

"You're not running out on me again, are you?" He growled, his voice still thick with sleep.

_Shit._ I froze, then sat back down.

I could feel him edging closer to me. I turned back and smiled. He caught me, grasping my left hand.

"I just wanted to avoid...the awkward." I winced.

"Who says it has to be awkward?" Dean started rolling his thumb over my knuckles.

"It's always awkward."

"I promise, it won't be awkward." He argued as he kissed the top of my hand and tickled it with his two-day old stubble. He began to tug at my arm. I surrendered as he pulled me back into bed, moving on top of me as I opened myself for him.

When I awoke again, morning had ascended through the curtained windows, casting a lazy light throughout the suite. Dean had draped his right arm across my waist, keeping me close to him. I blinked away the sleep and rolled over just as he opened his eyes and smiled at me. "Morning."

"Good morning." I yawned as he shifted on to his back, putting his left arm under my head, encouraging me to cuddle up to him. Though my right ear was on his chest by his sigil tattoo, I could hear his stomach growl.

"I'm starving." He admitted as he kissed the top of my forehead. "What time is it?"

"I have no idea and I don't care." I closed my eyes again. I could feel him checking the large black watch on his left wrist.

"It's 8:32." He informed me. "Does this place have breakfast?"

I lifted my head to see his face. "Not just breakfast. It has a free omelet bar, but it closes at 9:00am."

Dean eyes widened, then he pushed me off of him and jumped out of bed, scanning the floor for his clothes. "Come on. Hurry up!" He commanded as he pulled on his black slacks and began haphazardly buttoning his wrinkled white shirt. I covered my face with a pillow and he grabbed it and started hitting me. "Omelet! Bar! Let's go!" He tossed the pillow across the room and clapped his hands twice.

I groaned, then got out of bed. I threw on my gray shorts and found a black t-shirt in my bag.

I studied Dean as he wolfed down his western omelet and moved on to a waffle, periodically washing it down with black coffee. His hair stuck out on one side and was smashed on against his head on the other. I'm sure mine looked about the same. In the rush to get to the breakfast bar, neither of us wore underwear or shoes. Though he sat there oblivious to the diners around us, from the corners of my eyes I could see their disapproving glances.

"Everyone is staring at us." I pointed out, taking a drink of my orange juice.

"Why?" He asked, his mouth full of food.

I lowered my voice. "Because we stink like sex and are only half dressed."

Dean scanned the room and shrugged, then picked up a strip of bacon and dipped it in the leftover syrup on his plate.

"I'm surprised you have such a big appetite."

"Why?" He asked, taking another bite.

"You just ate a few hours ago." I smirked. _Why did I just say that?_

Dean coughed and grinned. The elderly couple who sat next to us huffed, then got up and left. We both laughed.

"I like you." He took another drink of his coffee. His phone began to ring in his pocket. He pulled it out and answered. "Hey, Sammy."

"No, I'm fine...I'm still here at Jane's hotel...There's an omelet bar." Dean winked at me. "Yeah, I don't know how long I'll be." He pulled the phone away from his mouth. "How long do you want me to stay?"

I shrugged.

He stared at me for a second. "'Til tomorrow?"

"I don't care." I blurted out, trying to keep my panic inside.

Dean took the phone from his ear and looked at me intently. "You don't _care_?"

I was so confused. I rolled my eyes. "I'd like it, if you stayed."

He smiled and put the phone back to his ear. "I'll see you tomorrow morning, Sammy...I don't care what you do. Go see a movie or something. Read a book...Yeah. Bye."

When we got back to the room, Dean and I collapsed on the bed beside each other. I curled up on my side and yawned. Despite our night and morning spent between the sheets, we hadn't slept much. Why was he still there? What did he want from me? More sex? I could do that. How long had it been since I spent two nights with a man? Since Mike? _Oh God. That was like seven years ago._ I felt like such a whore.

Dean pulled me back into the present. "How did you know Bobby?"

"Everyone knew Bobby."

"Well, yeah." He admitted. "How did you meet him? Were you on a hunt or something?"

I exhaled. I didn't want to go there. From where I was lying on the bed, I could see the bottle of rum. I got out of bed and poured an inch in the glass tumbler provided by the hotel. I took a drink.

"It was back in the hospital in Minnesota, back when this thing whole thing started. I had been there a month, healed over a dozen people. I don't even remember for sure how many. It was late at night and I was standing over a 30 year-old guy who was brain dead from a bad car accident. I said the words and this middle-aged guy in flannel and a trucker hat walked in the room, asked me what I was. He scared the hell out of me, so I rushed out and then collapsed in the hallway. When I came-to days later, there he was, sitting in the room watching me, just like the man in black had weeks before."

"Johnny Cash?" He asked, incredulously.

I had to laugh. I turned around to see him watching me from the bed. I shook my head. "No, not Johnny Cash. "Bobby took me out of the hospital, let me stay with him. He helped me get a job and my own apartment, made me promise not to heal anyone, tell anyone what I was...am."

"Not even us." Dean reflected.

"How did he die?" I needed to know.

Dean looked away and murmured. "He was shot in the head. A leviathan, Dick, the leader of the leviathans killed him." He sat up on the bed, his elbows on his knees as he rubbed his hands together.

I stared down at the rest of the rum in my glass. "A leviathan? I could have saved him. I would have...saved him. After his house burned down, I only talked to him a few times. He told me it was too dangerous to see him. He wouldn't tell me where he was. And then, one day, someone told me he was dead." I tipped the glass back and finished my drink. It tasted like shit compared to the smooth booze from the night before.

Dean's eyes widened. He pointed at me. "That was you who called. After Bobby died, you called his phone and I answered and told you he had died. Then, you hung up on me." He stood up.

"Yep." I grabbed the bottle. Dammit. Being with Dean was like chipping the dark brown polish on my fingernails. First, the edges peeled up and the next thing I knew, everything underneath was exposed, naked.

"I'm going to go take a bath. Did you see the big whirlpool tub?" I flirted, eager to change the subject. He grinned and lifted his eyebrows.

Sitting in the bath, hot, soapy bubbles surrounding us, I closed my eyes and gave up. We were both hunters and I didn't need to hide from him. He knew about the evil which threatened the world. He had also given up his life to stop it. Instead of recounting our past, Dean and I shared a silence that was no longer awkward. For the first time in as long as I could remember, I felt whole. I felt human.

I knew my time with him was a precious gift. When he came back to the hotel with me the night before, I expected ecstasy, but I had found something else, too. I stopped trying to be indifferent. For a moment, I allowed myself to imagine a life with him, that such a thing was even possible for people like us. The world around us reeked of hell, but we might have a chance to carve out a bit of heaven. We could be happy together. I knew this hope wouldn't last, but I let myself believe it for a little while.

The next morning, after another amusing trip to the breakfast bar, I packed up my things and took Dean back to his motel. I pulled up beside the Impala and parked, leaving the car running. I wanted this last part to be comfortable and easy, but he said nothing.

"I had a really good time, thank you." I smiled at him.

"Me too." He looked down, then turned to me. "Can I call you?"

I chuckled. "You can, but you won't."

"Yeah, I will." He argued, looking insulted.

"That not what we do, Dean." I tried to explain. "We're hunters. We move on to the next town and don't look back."

"So you're not going to give me your number?"

Was he serious? "You really want my number?"

"No. I already have it." He grinned in triumph. "I took it off your phone when you were in the bathroom this morning. I put mine in your contacts, not that you had anyone else in there."

I rolled my eyes. "Classy."

"Always." He reached over and kissed me, his hand on my cheek. He waited a few seconds too long to pull away and his lips were a little too gentle. If I didn't leave in the next minute or two, I was afraid I would try to get him to stay.

"So, I'll talk to you soon?" He asked, his face inches away from mine.

I laughed. "Yeah, sure."

I watched as he stepped out of the car, still wearing his white shirt and black slacks. As he walked up to the door, I shifted into reverse and backed away. I wished and hoped and prayed that he wouldn't look back at me, but he did. _Goddammit._

I was on the verge of tears.

I drove south on highway 75 past the hotel, trying desperately not to miss him already. It had only been two nights for God's sake and I wasn't fifteen anymore. At least I was able to keep my shit together when I dropped him off. As I headed back across the river, I wondered what it would be like to jump off the bridge, which made me even more disgusted with myself. I sure as hell wasn't suicidal. It would pass. I needed a job. I needed a drink.

I pulled into the truck stop by the interstate. The place looked big enough to have an alcohol section. Unfortunately, all I found was beer and overpriced local wine. I picked up a bottle of pinot grigio and noticed the hotel across the street. I drove into the parking lot and pulled out my laptop. Most of these two star hotels had free Wi/Fi.

I flipped it open and started to search with the usual terms: _Strange mysterious multiple deaths. _I reached into my jeans and pulled out a Swiss army knife, complete with corkscrew. I pulled the cork and tipped the bottle high. A sudden screech nearly caused me to choke, followed by the crunch of metal.

I jerked the bottle down to see a white Suburban bulldozing a blue Honda Accord off the road, brakes still screaming. It must not have stopped when it pulled off the interstate and collided with the passing car. As the vehicles started to slow, I corked the bottle and eased it to the floor, my eyes still fixed on the scene. I removed the key from the ignition and got out of Marie, making sure both doors were locked. I tucked the keys away in the wheel well and double checked that my pockets were empty. I took a deep breath, then began to run. I didn't have to stay broken. I could heal.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

_Beep. _

_Beep._

_Beep._

_Whirrr. Whoosh._

_Beep._

_Beep. _

The gentle din of the machines surrounded me, tethering me to the world outside of my dreams. I meandered through levels of unconsciousness, from deep inside myself to a wakeful stillness visible by no one. At times I could hear them, the specialists perplexed as to why I slept. Despite my bloodied shirt and hands, I had no injuries. The MRI was clear.

The blood pressure cuff hummed and squeezed my upper arm. With closed eyes, I ignored the doctors' wonderings and slipped back under the waves. In my grandma's galley kitchen, I pulled ingredients out of the white cabinets armored in a dozen layers of paint. She reached around me, holding my eight year-old hands as she taught me how to cut butter into the flour. On the low Formica counter top, I stretched the dough out with her black marble rolling pin. I struggled to pinch the perfect flute around the top of a pie.

When I was awake, I drank too much and had sex with too many random men. On cases, I hid in costumes, pretending to be important in a sharp suit or formidable in leather and jeans. I stopped acting when I healed. I embraced my gift, who I was.

Hospitals had become my only home and in them I never felt alone. They were the most honest places I had ever been, serving as portals where people entered this world and left. Loved ones sobbed in hallways. Some doctors delivered grave news while others brought new life into the world. In my sterile room, I relived the best times in my life. Bobby made excuses to come into the diner when I was cooking, I dropped a 129 point word in Scrabble on Mr. Lloyd when I was in lock up. My grandma brushed my hair. Nurses with cold, soft hands cared for me as I resurrected those I loved.

My self-induced comas also brought back lovers I had left behind. Mike asked me to marry him on his grandmother's quilt out by Hoffman Pond. Dean swept my hair behind my ear as I fell asleep on his chest.

Those I had healed flashed before me, gratitude on their face, joy in their second-chance lives.

I started to regain consciousness on Wednesday afternoon, two days after I pulled the broken girl from her Honda. My hearing became precise, each word outside my door, crystal clear. Though I was not sure of my exact location, I realized I was hospitalized somewhere in Nebraska or Iowa. I peeked through my heavy lids, feeling euphoric, free. They didn't know my name and I didn't want to share it. I let myself fall asleep again, eager to return to my dreams. I had promised. I swore would not spend my life dead, but I had to wait until nightfall to sneak back into the world of the living.

I summoned Dean in my sleep, not back to things which had been, but things which I hoped could be. He lay beside me on the hood of the Impala. Underneath the black sky glittered with stars, he took my hand in his and kissed it, making me promise never to leave him again.

Sometime after midnight. I said goodbye to the radiant faces of those I had saved and opened my eyes. One of the nurses had dimmed the lights before leaving my room. My stomach rumbled as I pulled off the covers and swung my legs out of bed. I hesitated for a moment before rising, taking a breath and trying to clear my head. I began to stand, cautious because I knew I was still high, intoxicated from the act of giving life.

I reached for the box of tissues on the stand beside me, folding it and making a bandage with the tape which held my IV in place. I gently removed the cannula from my arm, then taped it up before I got out of bed. I learned my lesson long ago about ripping out an IV. I searched the drawers and the closets, finding only my socks and shoes. I'm sure they were incinerated after I arrived, soaked with the blood from the accident survivor. Damn it.

With my socks and shoes in my hand, I crept out of my room. I found some nurse's scrubs close to my size in a supply closet, then sneaked into the galley. I ripped open a package of strawberry Pop Tarts and devoured them as I threw granola bars, little cartons of orange juice, and cheese crackers in a small garbage sack. The pastry crumbled in my mouth, the sugary syrup of the jam slick on my tongue. Food tasted so much better after I healed and it wasn't just because I hadn't eaten in days. All my senses were enhanced.

I tiptoed to the elevators, then rode down to the first floor. A sign hanging from the ceiling read that I was in Otoe County Hospital. _I'm back in Nebraska City. _I hoped no one would notice my black leather Sketchers at the bottom of my nurse costume. Thankfully, the lobby was empty, darkened in the middle of the night. The sliding glass door opened and I hesitated. I could almost hear them, the wounded, the dying, begging me to come back in and give them life, make them well. I could hear the laughter of Bobby when I didn't know how to use a tire gauge. Mike brought me roses and said he was sorry. And Dean. Dean slid his soapy fingers across my skin.

_Maybe I could heal just more person before I left. No one would notice if I slipped into a room tonight and made someone whole. It wouldn't make the papers, it would be safe. It wouldn't be going back on my word, would it? _I unwrapped an oatmeal raisin granola bar and shoved it in my mouth. No. I had to keep moving, keep living, find a case.


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6

Over the next few weeks, autumn descended on the Midwest. Oaks, maples, and birch flashed fire in the frosty mornings. Nights became crisp and wood stoves burned, scenting the air with the warmth of fallen trees. The farmers harvested their crops, widening the Great Plains and chasing the deer out of hiding. Like the sportsmen who girded themselves in camouflage, I donned dark suits and false badges, stalking predators who hid in the shadows.

I felt clean, worthy, worthwhile. I hunted, but no one haunted me. The healing at the junction of I-29 and Highway 2 had quieted the accusations of the dead. With a clear conscience, I destroyed a nest of vampires in the rugged hills of Ohio and disintegrated a werewolf in Badlands State Park. Despite the sinking temperatures across the Central US, I drove with the windows down, belting out Band of Skulls with the radio.

My soul didn't thirst and I didn't need more than a drink or two. I slept alone. Every man I met was too short, too fat, too desperate, or too douchey. Sleep was sweet and my dreams were sweeter. I was happy. I was a hero.

Dean didn't call, but I didn't expect him to. I hadn't seen Brad either since I pulled the co-ed out of the car.

At a McDonalds in Chadron, Nebraska, I found free Wi/Fi and began searching for another case. The burgers tasted like cardboard and the fries like plastic, but most fast food franchises provided the internet needed to find suspect news. I had a few to choose from. Either there was a shortage of hunters like the Winchesters said or more monsters were on the prowl. I could hunt a possible wendigo in White River National forest, but I never hunted those damn things alone. They scared the hell out of me. It looked like there was a vengeful ghost at work in Clinton, Oklahoma, but the long drive through Kansas would bore me to death.

I went with the third choice, three people in Wyoming who were found missing part of their brains, a likely kitsune attack.

I took Highway 20 into Wyoming, then down Highway 270, I-25, and Highway 34. The desolate landscape inched past my window and more than once I had to stop and pee on the side of the road. No cars drove past to witness me squatting by my car, which wasn't surprising. I knew there must be a few more people scattered around the state somewhere, but only a handful passed me on the highway.

Laramie stretched out across the 37 mile wide plain, reaching far beyond what was comfortable or realistic. Houses and businesses seemed miles apart and I wasn't sure where the city actually began. Just to be sure, I waited until I saw the "Welcome to Laramie" sign before finding a room. I didn't want to end up miles outside of the city, especially considering how often I had to walk to my car.

After I found a cheap motel, complete with a dried out dingy pool and mildew in the shower, I slipped into my sharp black suit. It was late afternoon, but I still hoped the coroner's office would be open.

I found the Albany County Courthouse Annex on third street and winced. The awkward angles and two odd rows of closely spaced rectangular windows felt forced and anachronistic. I knew some committee had voted on the attempted modernist building clad in redwood and beige, but I hoped they had been hanged in the city square. It was that bad.

When I asked to see the bodies of the victims, the receptionist directed me to Mary Grant, county coroner, a thirty-something woman with long, dark brown hair neatly pinned up in a bun. Dressed in seafoam green surgical scrubs, she led me to the elevator and down to the morgue. She seemed friendly, intelligent, and professional. Sometimes these western towns surprised me; I hadn't seen a woman coroner in almost a year.

She handed me a copy of the completed autopsy, then slid the long tray out from the refrigerated case. The victim was a 23 year-old male, an alumnus of the University of Wyoming football team.

"And the official cause of death?" I scanned the report as the coroner spoke.

"Exsanguination from a sharp chest wound, a thin knife of some kind."

"And his brain?"

"Looks like the killer took a small pick axe or claw hammer to the side of the skull post-mortem."

"Anything missing?"

"The hypothalamus, part of the brain stem, and the pituitary were all ripped out."

"Where are the other bodies?"

She sighed and I noticed the dark circles under her eyes. "The other two have already been released and buried, but I can get you the reports. The head trauma cause-of-death is the same."

"Thank you so much for your time."

I carried the records back to the car with me. I had never killed a kitsune before, but I had read about them at Bobby's.

Kitsunes looked human which made them more difficult to track. Apparently, when they attacked, sharp claws extended from their fingers, which would explain the slashed throats of the victims. Human pituitary glands were their primary food source, leading to centuries of legends misidentifying them as zombies who hungered for brains.

On the avocado green bedspread in my hotel room, I read the coroner's reports. Between bites of prime rib sandwich, I tried to find ties between the victims, something which would lead me to the monster. The first victim was a nineteen year-old girl at the University. The second worked for Kewitt Construction as a quality supervisor and was in his early thirties. There seemed to be no obvious connection. I could tie two of them to the University, but it didn't look like they attended at the same time. I also had no idea how that would link the construction worker.

I looked at the clock. It was only 9:00pm. I rubbed my eyes. No matter how many times I read the pages, I couldn't see any connections. I needed the whole police reports.

I threw on my jacket and headed out. Within about 10 minutes, I found a bar, Lucky's out on Grand Avenue. As I entered, the low ceiling made the establishment feel cavernous. Thankfully, a non-smoking ban from about a decade ago kept the air breathable. I sat up at the long bar which extended along the right of the narrow paneled room and ordered a rum and pineapple juice. My tolerance had dropped since my vacation in Otoe County Hospital and I didn't feel like getting wasted. I scanned the room, eying the college boys playing pool. One of them met my eyes, holding my glance for a moment. He had short brown hair and a week-old beard on his chin. Even the red hoodie, loose fit jeans, and cowboy boots looked good on him. I could tell by his stare that he would take me home if I let him, but I wasn't interested. I knew that his stamina would satisfy and I guessed he hid a toned body under all those baggy clothes, but he looked like one of those guys who cranked up both rap and country music in his pickup. I finished my drink and left, falling asleep sober and alone in my room.

I awoke the next morning at 7:00am, still smiling from the dream about working Claire's diner, flirting with the other cook, waiting for Mike to come in to the restaurant. Instead of clinging to sleep, I made coffee, dressed, and went for a quick run. A half an hour later, I showered and put on my charcoal suit and respectable heels only a few inches high. I hoped the sheriff's department would be as forthcoming as the coroner.

The Albany County Sheriff's Department was located in the main courthouse building, three stories of beige natural stone built in the 1930s. I sat in a wooden chair inside the office of Sheriff Clayton Wheeler, a stocky man in his sixties, clean shaven with short white hair. The high walnut paneling which surrounded us added to the gravitas of the situation and tension filled the room.

He glared at me. "And why exactly are you here?"

"I'm here investigating the serial murders which have occurred in the past month. I need to look at all the files and evidence that you have on the victims and the crime scenes."

"We got it handled, missy. This isn't a federal case. I have jurisdiction in my own county." He sneered. "Thanks, but I don't need no help from some suit from D.C." He eyed me up and down, then folded his arms.

I smiled, then eased out of my chair and stepped around the antique desk. Confused, he turned toward me and inched backward as I put one hand on the back of his chair, the other on the desk. As I leaned down, he pulled back.

"What the hell do you-"

I cut him off, my face close enough to smell the coffee on his breath. I lowered the tone of my voice, precise and just above a whisper. "I'm going to tell you this one time. You already have three bodies on your hands." I chose each word carefully, keeping my cadence slow for effect. "This killer isn't done, he's just getting started. If you even think of impeding my investigation, I won't just take your badge. I'll have you arrested for obstruction of justice and federal judges have no patience for ignorance, incompetence, and arrogance."

His eyes widened and he said nothing.

I stepped back and smiled at him. "Now, I need those case files and a room with a bulletin board."

"Yeah, I'll get those for you right now and show you to the conference room." He acquiesced with an obstinate look on his face. He stood and walked past me to the door.

"Great. And since I'm sure the coffee here is shit, I'm going to need someone to go pick me up something decent for me to drink."

I spent the rest of the morning and afternoon in the conference room, dark and paneled like the rest of the courthouse interior. Every half hour, I rearranged the photos, notes, and reports, hoping to see the hidden pattern of deaths. The kitsune chose both male and female, young and almost middle aged. There had to be something, some way to pinpoint how it chose. The location of the bodies also seemed random. The first was discovered on Sweetwater Drive southwest of the city, while the girl was found on Greenbelt Trail toward the middle of the Laramie. A caddy stumbled upon the third out on Jacoby Golf Course. From what I could tell, the victims had never even met. I sat at the large walnut table and covered my face with my hands.

I decided to stop ignoring the ache in my belly. I noticed the empty paper coffee cups and realized I hadn't eaten since breakfast. I glanced up at the clock. It was already 7:00pm. I stood up and walked around the table, headed toward the door.

My shoe caught on the edge of the rug under the table. I stumbled, knocking my knee on the wooden filing cabinet in the corner.

"GODDAMMIT!" I exclaimed, grateful I was the only one in the room. I winced and tried to stand up straight.

_I hurt my damn knee. Fuck. _

_Hurt knee. Knee injury. One of them had a knee injury. _

I limped to the bulletin board, finding the defensive lineman's autopsy report. He had incision scars from an ACL repair on his knee. His personal effects list included a leg brace. My eyes darted to the autopsy of the girl. She too had recovered from an injury, both the radius and ulna in her left arm had been broken in the past year. The quality supervisor had recent carpel tunnel surgery scars.

But, of course, that only led me to more questions. Was it a doctor? A nurse? I had the tie, but I didn't know who bound them together. Should I start at one of the medical clinics in town? At the hospital?

Shit. I knew exactly where to start.

Nothing was worse than watching someone die, to give them to my reaper, knowing that I chose my life over theirs. The second worst part of the job, however, was to talk to the families of the dead, their red faces and wet eyes, begging me for justice. I was bad at it. I had let grieving girlfriends sob on my shoulder. Mothers had embraced me because they could never again hold their children. I held the calloused hands of fathers and boyfriends as they broke into tears.

An hour later, I sat in the in the living room of Wendy England, trying my best not to look on the mantle at the photos of the deceased man.

"I'm sorry. Can I get you anything?" She wrung her hands. "My mind just isn't..." She trailed off.

"No, I'm fine." I tried to reassure her. A little boy in the corner stacked wooden alphabet blocks in silence. Was he two or three? I could never tell. It didn't matter. "I just have a few questions for you about your late husband."

She nodded and took a deep breath.

"He had carpal tunnel surgery?" I continued.

"Last month in Cheyenne."

Maybe I was completely off. The injuries may have had nothing to do with it.

"Did your husband see a physician locally?"

"For the carpal tunnel? No, just a specialist in Cheyenne, Dr. Richard Wilson. You think that his surgery had something to do with his death?" She looked at me confused.

"No, we just like to get a recent medical history on victims."

She nodded again, then her lip began to tremble. An infant began to cry down the hallway.

"I should let you go Mrs. England." I stood. "Thank you very much for your time."

"Of course, anything I can do to help you find the monster that took my husband from us." She walked me to the door. "Uh, he did physical therapy at Overland Therapy Center here in town. If that means anything..."

I smiled at her again and thanked her before I turned and walked toward my car.

Instead of having my mind on the case, I couldn't stop thinking about those little ones, fatherless and helpless. The idea of having children terrified me, so I always doubled up on birth control and even considered something permanent. I thought about Freyja and what she said to me, to Dean. I had watched too much death, too much suffering to think this was a world fit for a child, a place where monsters dragged off teenage girls for food.

Instead of knocking on any more doors that night, I grabbed some takeout and headed back to my dingy room. After mowing down the chicken sandwich and fries, I swallowed a Benadryl to counteract all the caffeine, then fell fast asleep.

When I awoke the next morning, I felt rested and well. Sobriety made mornings easy, the start of the day less filled with hate. I still couldn't bring myself to visit the family of the dead girl, so I stood on the wide open porch of the Spencer family and rang the bell. No one answered and I felt guilty relief. I didn't want to console them at the loss of their child. He may have been in his early twenties, but I knew he was still their little boy.

At Overland Therapy Center, I asked for the medical records of all three victims, pulling my fake fed badge out of my black suit. Thankfully, my assumption that they all were patients there was true. Moments later, I sat in a closet-sized consultation room and read the files. The three received care from all all five therapists on staff. I interviewed the two men and one woman who were working at the clinic that day. I watched their eyes carefully and no ancient words sat on my tongue. One of the other two must be my monster.

Timothy Johnson lived far northeast of Laramie in a subdivision where affordable homes hid behind full pines and half naked cottonwoods. The two-story duplex sided with gray slats was built into a small hill, providing separate two car garages at the basement level. Unlike his neighbors, he didn't seem to have anything to hide, his lawn deep green and treeless. Since he had been at the clinic for almost a year, I doubted he was the kitsune I searched for.

I walked up the clean-edged sidewalk which gradually led to the front door by a series of steps every six feet. A minute or two after I rang the illuminated doorbell, a clean shaven man in his mid-thirties opened the door. I introduced myself and he led me into his small living room, offering me a seat on the pale couch beside the fireplace. The therapist kept a clean home, tastefully decorated in off-white and beige. The popcorned ceiling stretched high, opening up the living room and the kitchen, broken only by a wall which partially separated the two rooms.

"Can I get you anything, Agent?" He asked politely before sitting.

"I'm great, thanks."

He gave me a wide smile and sat on the loveseat across from me. "How can I help you?"

Sometimes supernatural creatures gave off a tell, something imperceptible and unseen to most. Usually, I saw it in the eyes, a tiny flash of amber in their irises right after a blink. Even if I saw nothing, I always felt it, the eerie shiver creeping up my spine, giving me goosebumps. Something otherworldly pulled the cryptic words to my tongue, where they would wait until I cast down whatever plague I encountered. None of the usual flags rose to tell me Timothy Johnson anything other than a man. I proceeded with the standard interview. He wasn't the kitsune, but maybe he could still lead me to it.

"How well did you know the victims, Mr. Johnson?"

"Please, call me Tim. They were patients at the therapy center and I worked with them. I didn't know them outside of the clinic." He leaned back comfortably.

"Anything strange that you noticed at their visits? Any interaction with any of the other staff?" I knew this was going nowhere, but I attempted to seem like an investigator.

He looked confused and shook his head. "No, nothing. Do you think someone at the clinic was responsible for their deaths?"

"Not necessarily. We look into every possible lead." My phone began to buzz in my jacket pocket, rattling against my Swiss army knife. _No one had this number. Who could possibly be calling me? _"Sorry." I reached into my pocket and pulled out the phone, glancing at the display: _Dean. He's calling me. Should I answer? No. I'm hunting. I'm well. I don't need to complicate my life with a Winchester again. _ I hit the "Ignore" button, then smiled apologetically at the physical therapist. As I slid the phone back into my pocket, I noticed a man in a black suit standing behind him, gazing at me expressionless.

_Brad. _

_Timothy Johnson was the kitsune after all. How had I missed it?_ None of the signs were there, nothing telling me that I had found the creature responsible for the deaths.

But, no. Reapers didn't come for supernatural creatures.

They came for the human dead.

I stopped breathing. Horror rose within me, turning my stomach. _Not a kitsune. Not a demon or werewolf or vampire or ghost._ My limbs went limp. I caught the scream in my throat, the sob that begged to fly out of my mouth. With every single piece of my will, I kept my countenance calm, my speech smooth, concealing my terror. Demons cowered before me as I sent them back to hell. Gods dissipated as I spoke their name. When I raised my voice, death retreated to the shadows. I feared nothing. I could kill any creature without lifting a hand, but there was one monster I was powerless against: man.

_One of us is going to die. _


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7

_Say something. Fuck. Say something. _ All I had on me was my goddamned phone and a Swiss army knife in my upper jacket pocket. _Like it would do me a damned bit of good to pull it out when I still had to open the fucking thing with both hands. Fuck. _I scanned the room with my peripheral vision, looking for weapons, anything I could defend myself with. The pokers by the fireplace next to him were out of my reach. I spied a stainless steel ballpoint pen on the coffee table in front of me. I noticed the books lying on the fireplace mantle. I read the spine of one: _Endocrinology. _

I kept my tone even, as unaffected as I could muster. "So, you're interested in endocrinology?" _How the fuck am I going to get out of here alive? Stupid. I'm goddamned stupid. Nothing to protect myself with._

The man turned his head toward the fireplace and glanced at the book. "Yeah, I'm studying it...for college."

_Keep him talking. Keep him talking. Stay alive. Don't just fucking stare at me, Brad! HELP!_

"Oh, right. It's quite a fascinating subject though, the endocrine system." My heart thundered in my chest. Adrenaline raced through my veins.

He leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. "Exactly! Some people, they think that the brain and nervous system control the body. But it isn't true." He beamed. "The glands in our body control all of our physiology and behavior, everything from our sleep cycles, our sexual urges, growth, pain, our immune systems-"

I cut him off. "And the pituitary gland controls them all." _Why did I say that?_

"YES!" He exclaimed, clapping his hands together, then pointing at me.

_Survive. Get out the door_. "You know, I changed my mind, could you get me a cup of coffee, if it isn't too much trouble?"

"Sure!" He smiled at me, still excited. He got up and walked into the kitchen.

As soon as he stepped out of view, I snatched the pen off the table and rushed toward the door.

_Hurry hurry hurry hurry! _

About three feet from the front door, he plowed into me, launching me forward. _ Twist your body! You can't fight with your back to him! _

I turned as we fell, his arms around my shoulders. As I shifted my body, my hip slammed on the ceramic tile floor, agony shooting through my nerves. The pen shot out of my hand. _FUCK!_ As I tried to push him off of me, he grabbed my hair and smacked my head on the tile. I screamed and struggled to focus as pain surrounded my skull. He wrapped his soft hands around my neck and began to squeeze.

_I'm not ready to die I don't want to die oh God no not here not now! _Aching for breath, I began to panic as I frantically tried to peel his hands off my throat. I thrashed and kicked helplessly as he pinned me to the floor. My reaper stood above us, watching, his face placid.

"I'm going to kill you and consume you!" The murderer spat out at me, his eyes wild and veins popping out on his forehead.

I tugged on his fingers as shadows moved into the edges of my vision. My eyes watered and I blinked back tears. _No no no no no! _

"And your dead flesh will pull off your bones as I live forever!" He squeezed tighter.

I stared up at Brad. My vision began to fade. He would not help me. He brought death. He did not save the living. He leaned down toward me, his eyes fixed on mine._ It's time. I'm dying. I will go. _I stopped struggling and let my arms drop onto my chest, focusing my gaze on my reaper. I would not be afraid.

And then he spoke. For the first time ever, he said something to me, his pale face a foot away from mine. He said in a voice clear and low and calm, "Grab the pen to your right." Then, he stood back up and watched.

I jutted my right arm out. I frantically beat my open palm across the floor. And then I touched the cool metal barrel with my fingers. I grabbed the pen. I aimed for the protruding artery underneath his jaw, barely visible in my oxygen-deprived haze. With all the life left in me, I stabbed the pen into his neck and pulled it back out. Blood gushed out and splattered on my clothes. His hands jerked upward off of my throat on to his own as he scrambled to stop the bleeding.

I gasped. I hacked. I coughed. I wheezed, my lungs desperate for air. Blood spurted out of his neck, racing down his fingers. As I continued to choke, I pushed him off of me on to the floor. Still coughing, I struggled backward, pulling my knees in as I leaned against the closed door. Timothy Johnson's body stilled and his eyes glazed. The dark red pool crept toward me and I noticed the spirit of the killer standing beside Brad, confused as he peered down at his own corpse.

I watched in horror at what happened next.

The bland face on Brad transformed. His already pasty skin stretched across the bones of his face, causing his cheeks to hollow. His peaceful eyes blackened into large gaping holes. He sneered and opened his mouth to the ghost, revealing dozens of yellow pointed teeth. The soul of the killer stood stupefied as razor-sharp black claws extended from my reaper's fingers. The creature thrust his right hand into the phantom's chest, causing the killer to shriek in agony as it pulled him down through the floor.

And then, I was alone.

A sob began to build in my aching throat as I nearly wiped my eyes with my bloody right hand. I cleared my throat and held it back, afraid that if I started crying I would never stop. I sat for what seemed like a long time, concentrating on the blood inching toward me._ I should call someone, right? _I never called the authorities when I destroyed a supe. If there were bodies left behind by some monster, I rushed out of there, knowing I could be blamed for the deaths. This was different. I killed a killer, a human, a man.

I reached into my upper jacket pocket and pulled out my phone, grateful that I opted for the sturdy case. I contemplated my reflection on the screen. I wasn't just a huntress anymore. I was a killer. I hit the missed call notification and pushed send.

I cleared my throat, hoping my voice was back to normal.

After a couple of rings, Dean answered. "Yeah?"

"You called." I closed my eyes, hiding from the murder scene.

"I told you I would." He sounded distant. Maybe I just felt like he was thousands of miles away.

"You did." I admitted. I should ask him about what to do about the corpse. I needed to call Bobby, but the signal didn't reach that far.

"Are you okay? You don't sound okay?" He seemed concerned.

I tried to clear my throat again, but the scratchy edge in my voice remained. "I just... have a sore throat and ...I'm tired." I eyed the bloody corpse, the dead stare.

"Yeah, me too. Are you on a case?"

"I..." _Dean would know what to do, _I thought. "Just finished one." I looked at the red stains on my hand, my suit. "What about you?" I asked, trying to care.

"Finished one yesterday. I hoped I could see you."

"Okay." The metallic smell of blood and sourness of death flooded my nostrils. Nausea began to wash over me. I got up and walked over to the small kitchen.

"Where are you now?"

I held the phone to my ear with my shoulder, freeing my hands. I turned the faucet on and began to wash away the blood, watching the crimson water swirl down the stainless steel drain. "What?" I breathed slowly as the nausea passed.

"Where are you?" He repeated.

I grabbed a white dishtowel towel from the rack behind the sink and dried my hands. I spied a few bottles of liquor on the counter against the south wall.

"Uh, you know where I am. You turned on the GPS on my phone." One bottle of something clear was still sealed. _Vodka._ I used the towel to open it up and took a swig.

Silence. "God, I _am_ creepy."

"Mmm hmm."

"You want me to come there, to Laramie?"

I set down the bottle. "Uh, no." I turned behind me and looked at the corpse. _Should I call the police? Should I run?_ I ran my hand over the back of my skull, feeling the growing knot. .

"Do you want to meet me in Loveland tomorrow night?"

"Loveland?" _Loveland? What the hell, Dean?_

Dean stammered. "Uh, Fort Collins. I mean, Fort Collins."

I forced myself to look at the body again. I needed to get out of there_._ "Yeah, okay. Sounds good."

"So I'll call you tomorrow and let you know where to meet me."

"Yep."

"Bye."

"See ya."

I clicked the end button. I didn't know if I was making the right choice, but I had to do something. I did a quick search for the number to the sheriff's department and hit send.

Fifteen minutes later, I stood beside the shocked sheriff, the two of us alone in Timothy Johnson's home.

"Jesus H. Christ. What goddamned happened here?" He stared at the body.

"What happened, Sheriff, is that I solved your goddamned case for you and killed the son of a bitch." I pretended I was cool and collected. I hoped he believed me.

"Why didn't you fucking shoot him?" He turned to me and crossed his arms.

"Because he attacked me before I could get to my gun."

He nodded. "Damn. I'll call it in."

"You sure you want to do that right away, Sheriff Wheeler?"

"What kind of a game are you playing, Agent?" He asked, furrowing his brow.

"This isn't my first rodeo." I couldn't resist the cheesy metaphor. "You call this in right now, I end up with a week's worth of paperwork and every time one of you cowboys can't solve a case on your own, I end up in Nowhere, Wyoming."

He grunted at me. "So what do you suggest? We pretend you didn't stab some psycho in the throat?"

"Yes. I walk out of here, you get yourself a little bloody and tell everyone that you are the one who killed him. You become the hero and secure your re-election as the sheriff who stopped Laramie's first serial killer."

"Who says I'm running for sheriff again?" He countered.

"Or mayor. Or senator?" I raised my eyebrows. "'Senator Clayton Wheeler.' It does have a nice ring to it."

The sheriff studied me, squinting his eyes. "You walk out of here?"

"I go home."

He paused for several seconds. "Alright."

I shook his hand, thanked him, and walked out the door, grateful that the dark suit hid the drying blood, at least unless someone looked closely. _Did I agree to meet Dean at a hotel in Colorado? _I thought it would make me feel like a hero to tell the sheriff about the killer, to show him what I had done. Instead, it made me feel out of control, alone.

About 15 minutes later, I plodded into my motel room with a fifth of vodka, a bean burrito, and four bottles of blue Gatorade. I had driven in a daze, everything a blur broken only by a stop at a convenience store. The clerk had pulled a gun on me when he saw me and I had to show him my FBI badge. Apparently, employees at Fuel and Food weren't used to seeing women with dried blood all over their blazers.

After I closed the door to my room, I ripped the suit and stained shirt off of me. I tried the trash can in the bathroom first, but it was plastic. I checked the other one under the desk: metal. _Thank God. _I threw the bloody clothes in it and dragged it to the bathroom, the vodka in my other hand. _Shit. Matches._ I hurried back out to the desk with walnut veneer and grabbed the book out of the ashtray. I doused my favorite suit with booze and dropped the match, watching it burn as I sat on the edge of the tub in my bra and underwear. I grabbed the vodka and tipped it back, trying to swallow the fear from earlier in the day.

As the flames faded, I started the shower, shedding what was left of my clothing. I scrubbed with the thin, tiny bar of complimentary soap, desperate to get the feeling of death off of me. I was a killer. I brought death. I gave the monster over to hell and I wasn't sorry. I was reckless and stupid. I slid down into the dingy porcelain tub, letting the hot water rain down on my head as I pulled my knees up against my chest. I cried until the water went cold, then wrapped myself in a grayed towel and surrendered to the fire which was left in the bottle.

Hours later, I jerked up to sitting in bed, the memory of a nightmare slipping away before I could grasp it.

My head was swimming, but I still could feel it, him, here.

I was not alone.

I saw the dark figure sitting in a chair in the corner, hidden in the shadows.

I eased my hand over to the bedside lamp and turned the switch.

It was him. The man in black, the man with the indistinct old Hollywood accent, the man with the white wolf tipped cane and black hair slicked back from his wrinkled, pasty face. The man with the single white jeweled ring on his finger was in my motel room, watching me.

My heart thundered in my chest. He spoke to me when I first learned...and stood by as I saved Sam Winchester...and now he was here.

"I'm very proud of you, my dear." He began. "I didn't know you had it in you, the ability to kill _and_ the ability to heal."

I froze, speechless. He got up from his seat and stepped toward the bed, standing beside me, resting his hands across the top of his cane.

"It was quite satisfying, _wasn't it_? I _told_ you, sometimes people _have_ to die." He paused, his face blank and expressionless. "For a moment there, I thought it was going to be _you_." He turned around and walked toward the closed motel room door, stopping and looking back at me before he headed into the night. "I hope you realize you have more _killing_ to do before you settle your debts with me."

I sat up in bed, catching my breath, my heart drumming. I flipped on the light, casting away the shadows. I was alone. Had I dreamed of him? Was he in my room? A heavy thud began to beat in my head. My body ached. I reached over and grabbed my phone, checking the time. It was only 5:30am. I dragged myself out of bed and downed a Gatorade, then retreated to the saggy mattress and scratchy white sheets.

I hated malls. I couldn't tolerate the shining people with generic smiles and phony sales clerks who pretended to give a damn. As I wandered through Mountain View Shopping Center looking for a makeup counter, shoppers strolled past me hunting for percentages off things they didn't need, clothes they might never wear. After the hour drive south to Fort Collins, the bottles of Gatorade and cups of coffee had finally conquered my lingering hangover. It was late afternoon. I knew I should eat, especially since the morning's nausea had passed. However, the smells that permeated most shopping malls threatened to bring the sickness back again: giant pretzels baking, flowery perfumes which stung my nose, and acrylic nail solvent that would make anyone high.

In a sparkling department store at one end of the shopping complex, I found the bright glass cases of cosmetics and beauty creams as a young woman with sleek blonde hair and dark eyeliner greeted me. I removed the woolen scarf that I used to hide the reddish purple bruises on my neck. Her eyes widened in horror and she tried to convince me to go to a women's shelter. I tried to explain, but I finally had to flash my fed ID. Thirty minutes later, I stepped out of the mall satisfied, my shame hidden under concealer and foundation, a sack of Estee Lauder in my hand.

I called Dean. He told me the motel was located on Prospect Road, a place call the Embassy. He said he would be waiting in the bar. I've been to these types of places before, shoddy rooms and island-themed lounges under fake palms and tobacco-stained ceilings. But it would be better with Dean there; I wouldn't have to deal with creepy old men with combovers.

I drove up and down Prospect Road. I couldn't find the place and must be in the wrong neighborhood. On each side of the divided street, I saw three story office buildings and businesses clad in cappuccino colored paint. I nearly called Dean again, but on the third try, I found it. I rolled my eyes. He wasn't staying at "The Embassy," he had a room at Embassy Suites. My suspicion was confirmed when I spotted his black Impala nestled between rows of silver luxury cars and SUVs the color of champagne.

I walked through the sliding double doors of the Embassy Suites Fort Collins. It seemed huge with a two-story wall of windows which framed Horsetooth Mountain. As my eyes surveyed the room, I spotted Dean wearing his green field jacket over a red and white plaid flannel shirt. He strolled toward me past a gray and gold modernist fountain which trickled down from the open second floor. He smiled, but there was a weariness in his eyes that extended far beyond a few nights of poor sleep.

"How was your drive?" He asked as he leaned in to kiss me, open and full, yet restrained in the presence of the other guests. He tasted like whiskey and his week-old beard tickled my face.

"Fine." I smiled back at Dean after we pulled away from each other.

He raised his eyebrows and motioned toward the adjoining room to the right. "Happy hour. Free drinks!" He led me into the carpeted room with a small bar in the corner. I wondered how many drinks he already had as I sat on a plush, sage armchair. Instead of sitting in the matching seat across from me, he picked up the empty tumbler off the glass table and asked what I wanted to drink.

"Which bank did you rob to afford this place?" I teased when he returned from the bar.

He glared at me. "I don't rob banks. That was fake me."

"I remember."

Dean rolled his eyes. "I forgot. You know all about me and I know hardly anything about you." He took a drink from his glass.

"Totally not true." I argued. "You know everything important there is to know about me. And I have no idea what you did after Bobby died."

He looked away and nearly smiled, then met my eyes. "I hunted down the bastard who killed him, then I spent a year in Purgatory."

"Figuratively or literally?"

"Which do you think?" He finished his drink.

"Wow. Purgatory. I thought that was another myth. What was it like?"

He tipped back the tumbler and finished his whiskey. "It was bloody and brutal, hunting down every son of a bitch I sent down there and killing them again."

"Them?"

"Vampires, werewolves, all the goddamned monsters."

"Kind of like a cop going to prison."

"Yeah." Dean paused and stared at his empty glass. "Except I liked it." He stood up and took both of our tumblers to the bar.

I knew I should just leave it alone, but I couldn't. For that split second, I had seen it, that flicker in his eyes, fierce and feral as he remembered slaying beasts condemned to that dim world. He turned back from the bar and winked at me.

"Why did you like it?" I asked as he handed me the glass, this time a double. I took a long swallow before setting it down.

Dean looked down and laughed, then took a drink before speaking, his eyes distant. "It was different there. They couldn't hide behind human smiles and I didn't have to pretend to be something I wasn't. It was stealth and survival and slicing those bastards apart, none of the other crap that gets in the way."

It might have been the alcohol, but as we locked eyes, I went there with him. I imagined gazing into Dean's murderous stare as he butchered evil creatures he had banished from the earth. I envisioned him covered in sweat and dirt and blood, delivering vengeance, swift and sure and one with his blade.

I wanted him so bad, anticipating the waves of pleasure that would soon ripple through my naked body.

Dean caught it in my stare. His gaze bore into me, through me, the intensity growing in his eyes until he clenched his jaw.

"There's a darkness in you, Dean Winchester."

"Yeah?"

"And I like it." I poured back my drink, keeping my eyes on his.

The corner of his mouth turned up for a second. "Are you ready to go upstairs?"


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter 8

I lifted the lids of my eyes slowly, giving them time to adjust to the morning which slipped through the blinds. I could hear Dean sleeping behind me, his breath slow and calm and even, his hand resting on my right hip. I pulled the fluffy, down comforter over my shoulders and slid backward up against his naked body. He mumbled something, then wrapped his right arm around me, bringing me closer as he put his other arm under my head. I nestled against him, warm and cozy and safe, his breath on the back of my neck. His skin was burning hot the night before and he had bit his lower lip when I hit all the right spots. I never wanted to leave that bed.

"What time is it?" He grumbled.

"Don't know. Don't care." I pulled the comforter around me closer. "You're not dragging me to breakfast. I don't care if there is an omelet bar."

Dean lifted his left arm to see his watch and then rolled on his back. "I think we have another 30 minutes until they shut it down." His voice was still full of sleep, deep and heavy.

"Nope." I snuggled down even more.

"Oh come on. There's a whole buffet not just the omelets."

I rolled over to face him. "What if I can convince you to stay in bed?"

His eyes widened in shock and horror. "Did I do that to you last night?"

_Shit. My neck._ _I forgot about the bruises on my neck. _"Uh...no... uh..."

He raised his voice as he sat up. "Then, who the hell did?"

I sat up with my back to him and scanned the floor for my clothes, eager to cover up. "I'm fine, okay." I stood up and walked to the bedroom door. My shirt and jeans were probably in the other room.

"JESUS CHRIST, JANE!" Dean yelled as he followed me out of the room. He noticed the saucer sized dark bruise on my hip. He must not have seen it last night. "WHAT THE HELL HAPPENED TO YOU?"

I found my lacy boy-short panties and slid into them. "I'm fine, Dean."

He snatched his navy boxers off the floor and started pulling them on. "It's not fine when you are beat to hell!"

I fastened my bra. Before he could say anything else, I turned and challenged him. "Dean Winchester, do you think that I'm going to stand here and let you lecture me, when every goddamned time I see you, you have a new cut on your face or slash on your forearm? And is there ever a time when you don't have broken skin on your knuckles? You think I don't notice _your _bruises?"

He rolled his eyes and glared at me.

I kept going. "You know better than anyone that this job means sometimes we get hurt." I spied my jeans and put them on.

Dean scowled, but spoke instead of yelling. "Did this happen in Laramie? Was it a kitsune?"

I wished he would drop it. I couldn't find my other white ankle sock. "Yes, it happened in Laramie." I needed to calm down, too. I took a breath. "And I handled it, Dean. I told you, I'm okay. I'm a hunter. Are we going to hit up the breakfast bar or what?"

He sulked for a minute and we stared at each other, then he answered reluctantly. "Yeah, I'm hungry."

Ten minutes later, I set down my plate at a faux stone table in the dining area and sat on a wooden open-backed arm chair. Most of the guests had already left, but a few couples still sat reading the morning newspaper. I glanced to see one of the young families that remained staring at me as they got up to leave. Instead of starting in on my veggie omelet or mixed fresh fruit, I took a sip of my hot coffee and gazed out the full-length windows across the room. In the distance ,I could see Longs Peak already dusted with radiant white snow. I knew that the mountain only appeared just out the window; in reality, it was over an hour away. I knew the same was true for Dean and me, I just wasn't sure which one of us thought we were close and which one of us could see the expanse between us.

Dean pulled out the chair across from me, his plate loaded with an omelet, hash browns, bacon, sausage, and toast. We had only spoken a few words on the way downstairs, but now he ate greedily, smiling and bragging about the buffet between bites. I picked up a strawberry and put it in my mouth.

Dean glanced around the room. "Everyone's staring at us."

"Again? Is it because we smell like sex?" I took a bite of fresh pineapple.

"It's because that pretty purple necklace of yours makes me look like a monster."

I instinctively rubbed my hand across my throat as I scanned the dining room. He was right; the other guests kept eying us. I noticed the television mounted in the corner of the room silently broadcasting the death of Timothy Allen Matthews, Laramie's first serial killer. The captions quoted Sheriff Wheeler who brilliantly managed to appear both grave and smug. A reporter asked about the rumor of how the killer died, but the sheriff refused to comment.

"So, how's Sam?" I asked, eager to change the subject. Dean looked up at something near the ceiling behind me, probably another television screen. I hoped it was turned to the Weather Channel.

"Sam's fine." Dean answered through a mouthful of food. He took a drink of coffee, then picked up a forkful of hash browns. "What I don't understand is how you got hurt? I mean, you just say the magic words and POOF the kitsune should have been gone, right? Did it get you by the throat first?"

"Well..." I sipped my coffee. I had no idea what I was going to say.

"Or...it wasn't a kitsune..."

Dean studied me as he took a bite of waffle. I watched him figuring it out, always the hunter. _Dammit._ _I should say something. _"So, what have you been-"

He cut me off. I could tell he knew as soon as he spoke, his voice flat and calm. "You hunted a serial killer."

I sighed and looked away.

He dropped his fork and raised his voice. "What the hell were you thinking?"

A couple near us began to whisper, stealing glances in our direction. Their two young children were eating scrambled eggs.

"Look, I didn't mean to. I thought..." My voice trailed off. I hadn't come up with a good justification for myself. How was I supposed to come up with one for him?

"You '_didn't mean to'_? You '_thought'_?" His voice became angrier.

I stood up and walked over to the whispering woman and man. "He didn't do this." I pointed to Dean, then at the bruises on my neck. "I killed the son of a bitch who did. Anything else you're curious about?"

The couple stared at me in horror; their jaws dropped and the man began to stammer.

"Good. Enjoy your breakfast." I walked back to our table and sat down.

Surprised, Dean looked over at me. "Well, that's one way to handle it. Now, they're terrified of _you_, too."

We watched as the young family raced out of the dining area. I tried not to smile as I saw the corners of his mouth rise. We both laughed.

"Look, Dean," I confessed. "I've been running the whole thing through my head and questioning myself and second guessing...I've never done that before, thought a case was supernatural when it wasn't." I took a breath and exhaled. "You don't have to punish me for it. That psycho nearly killed me and I've been punishing myself ever since."

Dean moved his eyes down to the steaming coffee cup in his hand. He brought it to his lips, then set it down again. "I just...I care about you, Jane, and I don't want anything bad to happen to you. Just...be more careful."

I focused on his bright green eyes. He seemed to be telling the truth. _He cares for me?_

"Sammy's great." Dean began, changing the subject. "He doesn't give a damn about me. The year I was in Purgatory? He didn't even try to find me and he stopped hunting. He ran off and got a dog and shacked up with this girl. He doesn't want to hunt; he sure as hell doesn't want to hunt with me anymore."

"That must have been hard for him."

"Hard for _him_?" Dean looked at me incredulously.

"You left him all alone. Why would he want to go on hunting without you? Hunting alone is awful. Being on the road alone is hard. So, he tried to forget. He tried to make a life somewhere and tried to make a family, even if it was just some chick and her dog. I can't imagine how hard it would be to lose you, uh, I mean, him." I struggled to clarify what I was trying to say."How hard it would be for _him_ to lose you." _Oh my God._

Dean fixed his eyes on me, like I was a riddle he wanted to solve. "Yeah, maybe." He looked away, his voice barely above a whisper.

"So, what are we going to do with the rest of the day?"

"Oh, I have a few ideas." He grinned and looked me up and down.

"I bet you do."

Something changed at breakfast that morning. Minutes later, when I lay back on the bed, his touch became smooth and gentle. The tickle of his beard sent shivers across my skin. We moved slow and slidey together, the perfect amount of give and take. He wasn't a stranger and I wasn't just some woman he picked up in a bar. He knew every inch of my body and hit every hot spot. I knew how to swivel my hips in just the right rhythm. I knew how to move to make him moan and groan.

As we dozed afterward, still floating in the endorphin high, Dean kissed the back of my head. I winced and he asked when I was going to tell him what happened in Laramie. I described how the killer caught me and tried to strangle me, how I ended his life with a ballpoint pen. I shared all of it except the part about Brad telling me where to find the makeshift weapon. I was not weak; I didn't want Dean to think that I couldn't take care of myself. Dean wanted to know why I didn't shoot him. I told him that I didn't carry a gun, that I didn't need to carry a gun. All I needed to kill supernatural creatures was my voice and guns didn't work on most of the monsters we encountered anyway.

"How did you figure out that he was a serial killer?"

"Brad showed up. I don't see him unless a human is going to die."

"Brad?"

"My reaper, the one who takes those I watch die."

"His name is _'Brad'?_" Dean asked in disbelief.

"That's just what I call him. I have no idea if he has a name or not. He's never spoken to me." I lied.

"So, why do you call him 'Brad'?"

"You know, like Brad Pitt from _Meet Joe Black_."

Dean laughed.

We spent the day in bed and out of bed, sampling the mini-bar and watching shows on the Food Network. I told him that my reaper haunted me, silently reminding me that I only cared about myself. I described to him the dead who condemned me in my dreams. He finally told me about Purgatory, about how he and Cas fell when he killed the leviathan. He let me know about Benny, his vampire brother and I didn't judge, about how he climbed out, but left his best friend behind.

"Did it work?" I asked.

"Did what work?"

"The Catholics believe that Purgatory is the place where the righteous are cleansed of their sins. Did you leave your sins back there?"

Dean scoffed. There was no magic place where our faults could be burned away. Instead, he and I forgave each other. He told me I couldn't save everyone and I told him the same. I said I would carry his guilt if he carried mine. We knew it didn't work that way, but it was a nice idea. We laughed and made love and watched a Harry Potter movie. We drank too much and swam naked in the pool in the middle of the night.

The next day after loading up on the free breakfast, Dean and I packed up and walked to the parking lot. The gray sky hung heavy above us and the stillness of the morning told me it was about to snow. When I felt a storm coming, I either hunkered down or hurried away. I would have loved to stay another day in bed with Dean, but it was time; we needed to go back to work. We had people to save, things to hunt.

"So, you promise you're going to start carrying a gun? Do you really have a gun?" Dean asked as we leaned up against my Camaro.

"Yeah, somewhere in there." I nodded back toward the car.

"Hold on." Dean walked across the parking lot past shiny black BMWs and dark green Range Rovers. I could see him digging in the trunk of the Impala.

Moments later he returned. He glanced around the parking lot, then pulled a 9mm Smith and Wesson out of his jacket pocket and handed it to me.

I eyed the compact weapon in my hand. "Cute gun," I teased. "But I told you, I already have one." I tried to hand it back. Instead, Dean handed me a box of bullets.

"Come on. I'll feel better knowing that you have it."

"Fine." I relented.

"I can't protect you or worry that something is going to happen to you, Jane." Dean apologized. "I'm sorry, but I just can't." He sounded like he was trying to convince himself more than me.

"You don't have to." I assured him. "I can take care of myself. I'm not some rookie hunter, Dean. I've been doing this for a while."

"I know." He looked into my eyes. "But I'd like to do this again sometime."

"Give me another gun?" I smirked at him.

Dean laughed. "I mean, get away for a while, with you."

"Yeah, me too." I admitted as he put his arms around me.

"I'll call you."

"I know. Take care of yourself, Dean Winchester."

As I pulled away from the hotel, I realized that every time Dean and I left each other, he took a part of me with him. But, he was no thief; he didn't steal. Each time I was with him, really with him, I gave a piece of myself to him freely. He didn't leave me with nothing, however. He always gave me a piece of himself in return.


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter 9

Winter does not descend on the Midwest like a flood, evenly pushing its way across the prairie. Instead, the arctic winds carry snow and sleet in waves, dipping down into the Central States then pulling back again, hesitating to leave a lasting footprint on the gleaned wheat and corn fields. Some days the sun shines, catching the High Plains in a seemingly perpetual September. Other days begin with electricity in the air, a gray morning that spits snow only to melt in the warmest part of the day.

I left Dean and the Embassy Suites ashamed that I was on the verge of tears. With no destination ahead, I let the frosty arctic air carry me south to Highway 34. As I drove east away from the Rockies toward the flat prairie, I tried to focus on the weather and on the road, counting the mile markers on the edge of the shoulder. I invented stories about the people in cars I passed, anything not to think of Dean.

But, all the paths in my mind led back to him, despite my attempts at running away. He was not mine; we owed each other nothing. He didn't ask for my fidelity and I didn't ask it from him. I just wanted him to stay alive and he demanded I do the same. I thought of the fury in his eyes when he saw that I had been reckless with my life. I wondered how many more years Dean had left. Hunters lived hard and fast and I knew that someday I would have to add him to the cemetery in my head.

I kept my promise to Dean and I was cautious. I tried to become comfortable with the loaded 9mm in the waistband of my jeans. I stuck with the easy cases, the ones most likely to be ghosts. Vengeful spirits were simple, uncomplicated, straightforward and smooth. Murderers could masquerade as other monsters. I wished I wasn't afraid and I hoped the anxiety would pass.

Less than a week after we parted in Colorado, I was in the middle of a case in Oklahoma, what I believed to be the vengeful spirit of a failed oil prospector. The case made me sad. From the research I gathered, in the 1920s a man had married a woman from the Osage Indian Tribe, then killed her and their children to inherit the rights to an oil well which went dry less than a year later. Unfortunately, the dozens of Native Americans who died in Osage County in a similar manner made pinpointing the exact ghost difficult. Although I was technically tracking a ghost, the phantom was still borne from a monster of a man.

In the middle of the afternoon one day, my phone rang and I answered.

"Hello?"

"Hey, it's Dean. Do you know anything about specters?"

"Um, no. Anything I would know, you would know. We both had the same teacher." He didn't really want my advice.

"Yeah. So, how are things?"

"Fine. You know, life on the road, hunting things." I replied.

"Staying safe? Are you still armed? With more than your voice?"

"I'm extra careful and I've got the gun you gave me on me now. I told you not to worry."

"Awesome." He paused. "You turned on the GPS on my phone."

I wondered when he would notice. "I thought if you could track me, then I should be able to track you. Makes you less of a creeper."

Dean laughed. "I guess I am kind of a creeper."

"It's nice to know someone is keeping tabs on me." I pretended to joke. If I slipped into a hospital and spent some time checking-out after checking-in, he could find me, force me to live my life. If I fell prey to anything I was hunting, he could salt and burn my bones.

We talked a little bit longer without saying anything. We made ambiguous plans to meet again, but set no day, no time, no place. It was just enough, just what I needed. Somewhere in between the darkness and the demons, someone gave a damn if I lived or died.

After dispelling the ghost in Oklahoma, I headed north for another hunt, this time in Kearney, Nebraska. Three co-eds had disappeared without a trace on the university campus. The administration dismissed the report as college kids skipping class for an early break, citing that there was no evidence of any foul play and "kids will be kids." The college president and campus police obviously ascribed to the principle of Occam's Razor: the simplest explanation was also the most likely.

I lived in the world outside of university logic. I followed my almost-father's fundamental truth: "If it looks like something supernatural, then pull your head out of your ass because it_ is_ something supernatural."

Well, he was right most of the time.

As a formality, I questioned the college president first, a tall woman with a polished, precise vocabulary. As I sat there in my charcoal gray suit, pretending to be professional, I could tell she was very good at playing politics, just like her position required. She brushed off the whole thing. College students left campus all of the time without notice. The students were being melodramatic. However, she assured me that the college followed the appropriate protocol, by notifying the families and the authorities as required in the university system procedures manual. And yet, there was concern in her eyes.

"I already discussed this with the agent who was here a few days ago. I assume you are his colleague." She opened the top drawer of her sleek, dark cherry desk, pulled out a business card and extended it to me.

I read the card. _Special Agent Richard Colfax_ followed by a number and the Bureau logo. I could tell by the font that it was a fake.

She stared at me, waiting for an explanation.

"Whenever the Bureau sends out an agent on his or her own, they send another agent to follow up with an independent investigation, checks and balances and what not."

She nodded.

I thanked her for her time and walked out to my Camaro. A hint of snow began to fall, tumbling down from the white sky. I watched as the tiny specks touched down on Marie, then flitted off in a slight gust back into the chilly autumn air. I had hoped to find answers in the plain, two-story brick administration building. Instead, I left with more questions. _Who is the hunter who beat me to the case?_ I knew about a dozen or so hunters from the time I stayed at Bobby's. Of course, they didn't know I was a hunter or about my abilities; he said I was his niece and I kept my mouth shut.

It really wasn't important who he was, however. What was more important was whether he solved the case. Instead of pursuing the hunter any further, I decided to focus on learning if there was still a threat at the university.

With my open laptop on a bedspread covered with faded pink and light blue hibiscus, I learned about the university. Originally founded as a teachers' college, the school had been the educational capital of central Nebraska for over a century. Nearly all of the original structures had been dozed thirty years ago and the dormitory where the three missing students lived was constructed in the past ten years. I looked for any murders or suicides in the new buildings, but nothing came up. In fact, I couldn't find any news archives citing violent deaths at the college. Then, I found an interesting bit of history about west campus.

Built in the Georgian style in the early 1900s, West Center was once The Nebraska State Hospital for the Tubercular.

I searched and searched over the next few hours, but very little about the former hospital made the jump from carbon copies to the internet. I found a few scanned PDF reports from the early years of the facility, but nothing that told me how many patients it housed or how many deaths occurred on the grounds. I wondered what other secrets hid on campus.

I took another sip of vodka, then got off the bed and walked to the window. Heavy snow fell from the darkened sky as a single amber streetlight illuminated the flakes in an unearthly glow. I was sure that the tuberculosis hospital had something to do with the disappearances. I knew I could venture out in to the night, break into the building and explore the shadows, but instead, I stood there, gazing out into the storm. I wavered, unsure and anxious. I needed to wait until tomorrow to interview the students' roommates. I should get a tour of West Center before venturing into the building when it was dark. I hated the hesitation and was embarrassed by the worry, but it had become a part of me. Even if I was as confident as before, I still needed to keep my promise. I finished the vodka in my glass, then poured another.

The next morning, I decided to resume my hunt at the students' dorm. I still hadn't replaced the suit I torched in Laramie, so I wore a tapered white button down shirt, jeans, and a black wool pea coat. Only a few inches of fluffy white snow fell the night before, but campus services had already cleared the walks. On my way to Braithwait Hall, chunks of salt cracked under my black ankle boots.

At the front reception desk of the six-story T-shaped brick building, I displayed my badge to a terrified young receptionist with long golden hair who pointed me to the office of the dean. Kathie Richmond, a plump woman with short gray hair, must have been briefed by the president of the college before I arrived; she gave me the same answers using almost exactly the same language. Once again, I had to explain that I was following up after the investigation of the previous agent. Once again, I left a spotless academic office no closer to solving the case.

Instead of moving on to West Center, I stayed at the dorm and climbed the three stories to reach suite 323. At one time in my life, back when I still lived with my grandparents, I thought I would go to college. My penchant for arguing led my grandma to believe I would be an attorney, but I was lucky to have my GED. Two giggling students stared at me in the hallway as I passed. I tried not to be jealous of their simple lives, the bright futures which waited for them. One might someday drive an SUV filled with rowdy soccer kids while the other could give orders from a corner office with a breathtaking view.

When I knocked on door 323, I readied my badge. The entrance to the suite slowly opened revealing a short girl in gray sweatpants and a blue UNK t-shirt. Her straight brown hair was pulled up into a messy bun on top of her head. I introduced myself and she gasped, instinctively putting her hand over her mouth as her eyes popped open wide.

Moments later, I sat awkwardly in a bright orange butterfly chair in the corner. I suddenly felt old, ancient in the room with fluorescent polka dotted curtains which matched the bunk bed comforters. As I glanced down at the green shag rug, I realized that I had seen the exact same patterns and colors at a motel at some point, except this room didn't smell of stale cigarettes and dust.

Sophomore Bailey Robbins shifted nervously in the plastic rolling chair. Her eyes began to redden, but her voice stayed calm. "I already told that other FBI guy everything. I told everyone everything I know."

"I know." I tried to reassure her. "I just want to make sure that they didn't miss anything. Paige and Lauren didn't mention meeting anyone new recently?"

"No. Paige and Darren have been together for a few months. Lauren wasn't seeing anyone." She began to sniffle.

"Did they say anything about getting away, taking an early break?"

"No." She hung her head down. I didn't want to make her cry. I hated it when they cried.

I lowered my voice and dragged the chair across the carpet toward her, then I leaned forward, my elbows on my knees.

"Look, Bailey, I really want to find them, but you are going to have to be honest with me. What was going on that you're not telling me? No one is going to be in trouble. I'm just here to help."

She sniffled again, then took a deep breath, her voice shaky when she began to speak. "We were all drunk the night they disappeared. I know we're underage, so I didn't want to say anything but now they are gone and..." She started to sob. I spied a box of tissues on the desk behind her. I got up and grabbed one, handing it to her.

"Shh. It's alright. Tell me about it." I tried to calm her down, reaching my hand out and taking her hands in mine as I sat back down.

"So, we were all drunk and Paige starts going on about wanting to go on a ghost hunt like those idiots on tv and Lauren gets all into it and excited. They started calling Darren and me cowards so he finally went with them. I passed out and they never came back." She started crying again. "They're dead aren't they?"

"I'm sure they're fine." I lied. She leaned toward me and started sobbing on my shoulder. I put my arm around her and patted her back. I was sure I couldn't bring her friends back, but at least I could do this for her.

When I left the dormitory, the clouds had opened to the bright sun high up in the sky. I must have been in the room for over an hour, letting the poor girl cry on me. I checked the lapel of my coat for snot, but she must have been careful, which I appreciated. I squinted my eyes as I walked back to Marie. The blinding reflection off the white snow made me wish I had my sunglasses while the frigid air tickled my nose. I could walk the half mile to west campus, but I retreated back to my car instead. I guessed the temperature was still only in the lower teens.

West Center stood as the anachronism on the University of Nebraska campus. Unlike the newer modernist buildings built over the past fifty years, the former hospital still seemed more like a sanitarium than a lecture hall. The stern main building stretched up four stories in muted red and orange brick ornamented only by pale granite pilasters. On each side, two story symmetrical wings extended out toward the east and west. I pulled into a "VISITOR" space in the center of the wide half-circle driveway and parked. As I walked toward the ominous building, I shivered. I wanted to think it was because of the cold.

I expected the inside to be remodeled and renovated, all remnants of the hospital hidden under off-white sheetrock and commercial carpeting. The skyrocketing college tuition rates even at this public college had to go somewhere. I stepped through the double doors and walked to the front desk. A smiling young man wearing a navy blue polo shirt and khaki slacks greeted me. "May I help you?"

I said nothing, instead I stood agape at the woman behind him. She wore a high-collared light blue long-sleeved dress with a starched white apron. A small white cap covered the neatly pinned bun on top of her head. She didn't notice my entrance and continued sorting unseen folders into a filing cabinet which wasn't there.

"May I help you?" The man asked again, then turned back to see what caught my eye. Of course, he saw nothing. I've never met anyone who can see ghosts like me.

"Yeah, sorry." I apologized as I removed my badge from my coat and displayed it for him. "Is the Dean of Communications here?"

He quickly transformed his look of surprise into a smile. "I'm sorry, but Dean Fitts is at a conference for the next few days."

I returned my fake ID to my pocket and glanced to the right. In a phantom wheelchair a man sat, his black hair neatly parted in the middle, his head down. He wore a long-sleeved white hospital gown and white pants underneath. Another white clad ghost walked out of one side of the corridor into one of the rooms. I thought I was going to throw up.

"Maybe you can help me. Can I get a tour of the building, please?"

"Sure!" He beamed. "Um," he looked around. "Let me get someone to cover the desk. Hold on."

I gave him a quick smile and turned my head to the left. More ghosts, moving in and out of rooms, oblivious to our presence. I swallowed away the words which sat on my tongue. I would have to wait until tonight to dispel all the phantoms. I would have to come back alone in the dark.

Within minutes, the student walked me through the building, beginning with the west wing. He chattered about the degrees offered in the communications department and the placement rate of the graduates. "This part of the building is where the professors and assistants have their offices." He gestured to the left and right. "Most of them are in class teaching right now."

As I looked through the small vertical windows, the lights were off and the rooms devoid of life. In more than one, I spied flickering forms most still and unmoving. A nurse fluffed a pillow that wasn't there, then swiftly passed through the wall. Each room was the same. The ghosts didn't recognize the living. The ghosts didn't realize they were dead.

My tour guide stopped suddenly and turned around. "Okay, I'm sorry, but you're here with that other agent, right? Do you think those other students were like, kidnapped or murdered or something?"

I answered, flatly, "I'm not at liberty to discuss a pending investigation-"

"Right. Sorry."

As he turned back around, I caught movement with the peripheral vision in my left eye. I shifted my stare through the narrow window. A man with light brown hair wearing a long white jacket and wire framed glasses leaned over an unseen desk. He appeared to be writing. I shifted my glance to the bronze plaque which hung by the door.

"What's this?" I asked the student.

"What?" He walked back toward me.

"This?" I pointed at the marker.

"Oh. That was Dr. Carey's office. West Center used to be a hospital, a tuberculosis hospital. He founded it back in the early 1900s."

I nodded.

The guide shifted his eyes back and forth, ensuring no one overheard his whispers. Then, he leaned in toward me. "They say that after his wife and young daughter died of TB, that he went crazy, started having seances in the hospital and everything, trying to bring them back. And when he couldn't, he hung himself. And now, he haunts the hospital." He leaned back and folded his arms, a grin on his face.

I nodded. "Who are 'they'?"

He frowned defensively. "People."

"Ah. 'People.'"

We continued the tour on the first floor and up onto the second. I peered into classrooms, observing white-clad patients levitating in the air, their beds long gone while the spirits lingered. They sat in still wheelchairs ignoring lectures like the students, seemingly lying on co-eds laps. I asked about the upper floors and the basement.

"Those areas are sealed off. Only maintenance can access the attic or the basement."

I thanked him for his time and hurried to my car. I was not afraid of ghosts. None had ever harmed me. My voice dissipated spirits in a second, just like it could any other unworldly creature. But, how many had I seen in the former sanitarium? Dozens? I thought about calling Dean, but I knew I would just put him in danger. Times like this, I missed Bobby even more. He would know what to do.

I heard his voice in my head: _Are you going to sit there and shake like some pansy? Put on your big girl panties and do your job. _

He never said anything like that to me. He would tell me to leave, that some other hunter could do the job. He would tell me to stay safe. The voice that goaded me, demanded me to behave like a grown woman was my own.

At around 11:00pm, I sat across the street from West Campus in the parking lot. The white and blue campus security sedan cruised by as scheduled on the hour. I chased my fear with a swig from the pint of Bacardi beside me and tucked it under my seat. I hurried across the snow-blanketed lawn, my boots crunching through the top layer of ice that had melted and frozen again. Leaving tracks was a risk I would have to take.

I chose the side door, where the orange glow of the streetlamp didn't quite reach. From my jacket pocket, I pulled out the worn small brown case of lock picks, the first purchase I made after I broke out of the Academy. As I unzipped it, I thought of the tall skinny man with the lined face and myriad of tattoos who stared hard at me when I asked to buy them. He had only relented when I assured him it was his investment as well as mine, back when I lived on what my hands could take.

The tumblers clicked into place and I eased open the glass door. I wished I had brought the bottle of rum with me. I exhaled and stepped inside.

The dim red light from the exit sign cast an ominous crimson haze through the darkness onto the off-white walls. As my eyes adjusted to the gloom, I saw no spirits, no ghosts patrolling the hall. Instead of waiting for a phantom to appear, I let the words come forth and echo through the foyer, hoping to disintegrate any spirits which waited for me.

"_U·e·ruch thshub al e·aleim ashr nthn·e!_"

I stood in silence, waiting. I heard nothing, saw nothing.

For the first time, I realized the immensity of the building itself. I had focused on the number of ghosts instead of the number of rooms. In my experience, the words didn't work through walls and my speech didn't seep up stories. I was going to be there for hours. _Shit. _

I pulled the flashlight from my pocket and flicked it on, scanning the corridor in front of me. I walked toward the first door on my right. It was locked. _Dammit._ Through the sliver of a window, I saw what looked like two female patients resting in invisible beds. I pulled the kit from my pocket and needled at the lock until the tumblers gave way. I opened the door and repeated the words, then watched as the ghosts dissipated. I sighed and moved on to the room on the left.

It took forever, picking the lock of each door. Throughout the east wing, I encountered no malevolent spirits and none of them noticed me. Instead, they drifted off in their sleep like they should have decades ago. I walked past the main entrance into the west wing, then I realized the dean might have a master key in his desk. Stepped toward the door, then bent down and went to work at the lock. I caught movement out of the corner of my eye. I turned my head.

A scowling nurse moved toward me. I gasped. She glared down at me. I couldn't move. She was only inches away. My breath caught in my throat. Where were the words? I tried to force them out. My heart raced. It was too late. _Oh God! _Shivers raced up and down my skin.

She passed right through me. I jumped up and the words burst forth from my mouth, but she was already gone into the dean's office. I stood back and panted, waiting for her to come out of the room again. I closed my eyes and ran my open palm over my face, trying to wipe away my apprehension. A minute or so later, she exited the office and walked past me. I didn't hesitate this time.

"_U·e·ruch thshub al e·aleim ashr nthn·e._"

And then she was gone, too.

I took a deep breath, leaned down and hurried at the lock. I didn't want to wait for another ghost to startle me. In the top drawer of the dean's mahogany desk, I found a ring full of keys. Thankfully, someone had taken the time to write the room numbers on each one in black permanent marker.

Back in the hallway, I found the key to room 114 and unlocked the door. I repeated the words and watched as a man floating in mid-air vanished. I pulled the door closed again and headed to the next room.

"Jane?"

I whirled around to see a man in his early thirties sanding behind me, a grin on his pale face. He wore a brown stocking cap on his head, covering his dark close-cropped hair. The insulated flannel shirt he wore underneath his tan down-filled vest was classic hunter attire. I didn't need his clothes to tell me that, however. Even in the darkness, I knew him.

"Joe?"

"I knew it!" He laughed. "I knew you were a hunter!" He folded his arms and smirked.

"Is it really you or are you 'Special Agent Richard Colfax'?" I teased.

"It's sad that my alias is more believable than my real name. My parents thought they were funny."

"Did they,_ Joe King_?" I had only met him a few times, but his name was unforgettable.

He laughed. "How long has it been? Three or four years?"

It was ridiculous to catch up in the middle of a haunted asylum.

I answered him with a smile. "The last time I saw you was when Bobby caught us kissing in his kitchen and he threw you out."

"The old man was really pissed!"

"Yeah, he was. And, I was really pissed at him afterward." I admitted.

His voice softened as his smile disappeared. "I'm sorry to hear about his passing."

"Thanks. So, what all do you know about this place?" I was eager to change the subject.

"Upstairs in the attic, I found a book of spells hidden under the floorboards. Based on that and the symbols that were carved in the floor, I'm guessing this place is cursed or something. Follow me." He headed around the corner and began ascending the stairs.

I should continue dispelling the ghosts from the west wing, but I wasn't ready. Not yet.

On the fourth floor, I watched as another nurse moved through the closed doors, tending to patients who were already dead. Joe didn't notice her swift movements entering and exiting the rooms and she didn't see him. I ignored her presence as Joe rattled on about the case.

"I think those kids were up here, too. There are fresh candles on the floor." He stopped in front of a door at the end of the hallway labeled "PRIVATE" in heavy black lettering. He reached for the handle and shook it, but it didn't open. "Do you have the keys?" He turned back to me.

The steep, narrow stairs creaked under our feet. I felt a shiver rush through me. I knew this was the place.

The room opened up at the top of the stairway revealing bare floorboards and open rafters. He was right; someone had scrawled unidentifiable characters into a wide circle on the floor. The wax on the red candles which surrounded the runes hadn't had time to collect dust.

"See. Whatever happened, it took place up here. I think the students unleashed some violent spirit or something." He pointed to the floor.

Just then, the three students emerged from the shadows. They rushed toward us.

"Oh shit!" Joe jumped in surprise..

The blond student with a pixie cut cried, "We can't find our way out! We just want to go home."

"I'm sorry! We never should have broken in here!" The young man with shaggy dark hair and a brown leather jacked confessed.

"Can you help us? Please?" Begged the young woman with ombre hair and wearing a hot pink puffy coat.

"Yes." I admitted sadly. "I can help you go home." I knew it was time to reveal to Joe who I was, what I could do.

"I'm sorry, Joe."

He was perplexed. "Sorry for what?"

I said nothing and we stood for a moment in silence. The confusion began to slowly melt away on his face until I knew, he knew.

"Oh fuck." He cursed. "No." He rolled his eyes and looked away. "You have got to be fucking kidding me." He stared at me. I could see tears begin to well in his eyes.

"It's time, Joe." I felt a sob begin to rise in my throat. I swallowed it back down.

"What?" The blond looked at him, then back to me. "What's going on?" 

"We'll all be okay, alright?" Joe said to the girl. "Jane here is going to help us." He turned to me. "It was good to see you again." He gave me a faint smile, then asked, "How're you going to help us, anyway?"

I opened my mouth to say the words, but before I could utter anything, a man in a white lab coat and wire rimmed glasses appeared before us, causing all of us to flinch. The college students vanished. He began to march toward me.

"Can you take me to them? I tried to bring them back but I couldn't. I need you to take me to them." The ghost of Dr. Carey pleaded. Then, anger flashed in his eyes. "The others couldn't take me to them!"

I watched the frozen breath escape from my mouth. "I can take you to your wife and daughter." I watched the rage fade away and his countenance calm.

I turned toward Joe. "See you later."

Instead of saying goodbye, he smiled back at me.

"_U·e·ruch thshub al e·aleim ashr nthn·e._"

I shielded my eyes as a bright flash of light exploded across the room. The light faded out until darkness consumed the attic, the single beam of my flashlight focused on the floor. I knew I was all alone. For a moment, I even missed Brad. I wanted to stop and cry, but instead I made my way to the stairs.

On my way back down, I patrolled each floor, checking for lingering spirits. I scanned each room through the rectangular panes of glass in each door, but the building was empty except for me. I set the keys on the receptionist's desk and let the automatic lock engage as I stepped out into the frigid night.

When I got back into my Camaro, I was shivering. I started her up and checked my phone for the time. I had been in West Center for hours. I hoped there was a missed call from Dean, but there was none. I reached under the seat for the rum and took a swig.

A figure in black appeared on the passenger seat beside me. I choked and sprayed Bacardi all over the dash and windshield.

"Jesus Christ!"

"No." He corrected me. "I am _not._ _You_ are actually more like him than _I am_, with your _healing_... casting away _demons_... raising the _dead_."

"Wait. What? _Raising the dead?_"

"I keep forgetting _you_ didn't receive an owner's manual. That's all the doctor wanted to _do_, bring back his wife and child. Idiot ended up trapping every _soul_ who died there for almost a _century_. It was only a _minor_ annoyance." He sat with his hand on his cane. "You _are_ becoming useful, aren't you?" He opened the car door, then stopped. _"You_ wouldn't be fool enough to try that, _would_ you? Bringing _back _the dead?"

"Uh..."

"Oh, yes. You are tangled up with Dean Winchester. Maybe you are that stupid." He got out of the car and shut the door. And, then, he was gone.


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter 10

Dawn.

Sunrise crept up behind me, pushing me, chasing me from The Good Life. What time was it? I didn't know. I tipped back my coffee cup and caught the last drop on my tongue. I needed to pee. Instead of stopping, I drove faster and farther. The wintry landscape whitened as the rising sun bleached the blanket of snow. I shook the thermos, but no coffee sloshed inside. I rubbed my aching eyes and reached for my Wayfarers on the seat beside me. I needed sleep but not like I needed to keep moving. I raced into the high plains of Wyoming, running away from nothing, trying to escape from both life and death.

I stopped at a truck stop in Cheyenne and filled the tank, then filled the thermos. I had been up for over 24 hours, but I had no intention on sleeping. I found Joe dead. I couldn't have saved him. Guilt didn't drive me and neither did grief. _What was I running from? Fear?_

_Yes, fear. _

_Fear of losing Dean. Fear of the dead. Fear that I would hospitalize myself again. Fear that this was all my life would ever be. Fear I would lose my mind. _

I choked down more coffee. Snow began to trickle down from the sky. Through Green River, Evanston, into the Beehive State, the world sped past as I watched through the car windows. I turned up the radio and began to belt out _Nirvana, The White Stripes, The Kills. _Flurries scurried across the highway. Where the hell was I going? When had I last slept? Traffic thinned and whiteness began to close in around me. I didn't love Joe, but I made a marker for him anyway. I promised not to forget him as I placed a wreath for him in the graveyard in my head. _Tell Bobby I miss him. Give my grandma and grandpa a hug. _

I couldn't see more than a dozen feet beyond the car. Could I really bring back the dead? Heavy snow pelted my windshield. I knew I should stop. Red light peeked through the storm and disappeared again. Shadows of blue reflected off the snowflakes then retreated back into the white. _I must be hallucinating. I should stop and sleep._

The blank walls which surrounded me opened for a moment. I saw the ambulance on the side of the road, the police SUV, the upside down car deep in the ditch. On top of the snow, Brad stood weightless, staring at me as I passed.

I couldn't outrun death. Marie slowed to a crawl, but kept moving forward. Inch by inch, the curtains lifted exposing the layered red rock of Echo Canyon. The towering bluffs beside me made me feel small. Could I have saved them? Could I have brought all of them back? I fought rush hour traffic through Salt Lake City, skirting the lake and the emptiness beyond. I needed to keep moving. I needed to stop and sleep.

_Clack. Clack. Clack. _

My heeled boots clattered on the small hexagon tile as I walked down the corridor. The sharp smell of disinfectant stung my nose. A pale man in a white gown and white pants sat in a wheeled chair in front of me. He gave me a weak smile as he wheezed, "Hello...Miss Jane."

I smiled back as I walked past. "Good evening, Richard."

A woman wearing a blue long-sleeved dress and white apron stepped out of a door a few feet ahead of me, her face grave as she met my eyes. "I'm sorry."

My heart sank. I already knew. "It's okay." I gave her a faint smile, then walked in the room.

On a simple iron bed was Dean, bleached sheets and a white blanket carefully spread across him, his body still.

"I'll give you some time." The nurse smiled weakly, then walked out, closing the door behind her.

A shiver passed through my body. I stepped to the side of the bed and gazed down at him, his face blank and lifeless, his eyes closed. I opened my mouth to say the words, but no secret spell came forth.

"It's too late...I can't..." My right palm caressed the stubble on his cheek. My thumb skimmed his pale lips that were just started to show a tinge of blue. I let my arm drop back to the side of my body as I choked back a sob.

Icy fingers slid through mine, clutching my hand. I turned to see Dean, his spirit not flickering, but solid standing beside me.

I took a deep breath, then exhaled. "This is so hard."

"I know, but we both knew this day would come."

"Yeah, we did." I leaned my head on his frigid shoulder.

"Are you ready, _Dean?_" Death asked, suddenly sitting in the corner.

"No." Dean glared back.

I heard a tinkling noise and looked out through the blinds. I spied a wind chime hanging from a shepherd's hook as it began to sway in the breeze. My heart began to thud in my chest, an even steady rhythm. I heard someone strumming a guitar, but I looked around and couldn't see the source of the music. I let go of Dean's ghostly hand and opened the door behind me. A man sat at the end of the hallway, his messy dark hair touching his shoulders, a thick beard on his face. As he played the guitar across his lap, he began to sing:

_I was born the devil's son  
Yes my dad, he gave my name  
No my mama keeps saying_

Run to the desert  
You will see all that you need to see  
Run to the desert  
You will be all that you need to be...

I looked back into the room. The bed was empty and the ghost of Dean had disappeared along with Death. Darkness began to creep into the edges of my sight. On the small end table beside the bed, my cell phone began to rattle across the surface, flashing.

The hospital walls collapsed around me revealing shadows in an unknown motel room. I blinked back the sleep and reached for my phone. It was 7:18 pm. How long had I been sleeping? Where was I? My home screen showed I had a missed call. My ringtone had seeped into my dream. I clicked the notification and read the name. _Dean. _

I dropped my arm back on the bed and closed my eyes. I was no prophet or prognosticator; none of my dreams had ever come true. I hit rewind in my mind and moved backwards through the scene in my head, trying to pull apart the pieces which made up the dream. Death made an appearance because he showed up in my car a few days ago. I realized I had recreated the hospital from the last case. Those parts were easy to explain away, but I knew the fear of Dean dying was real.

I hit the missed call button on my phone, then clicked send.

"Hello?" Dean answered.

"Hey. You called?" My voice was still thick with sleep.

"What are you doing? Are you busy?"

"I'm sleeping."

He laughed. "Sorry. You need me to let you go?"

"No." I rubbed my hand across my closed eyes. "It's good to hear your voice."

"Yeah. It's good to hear yours, too."

"What's up?"

"Cas is back."

"That's great." I waited for him to respond, but he said nothing. "Wait? Isn't that a good thing?"

"Yeah, yeah. It's great, but..."

"But what?"

"He doesn't remember anything. I remember every single second of when I dragged myself out, the blinding pain in my arm from Benny, pulling myself up each inch of that steep hill to reach the portal, how Cas slipped out of my fingers..." He trailed off. "And he remembers nothing? Something's not right."

"Yeah, I see what you mean." I tried to muffle my yawn.

"So, where are you?" He changed the subject.

"I didn't shut my GPS off. You should know."

"It's not like I sit around and watch your every move. It's... in case you get into trouble."

"Oh. I'm...uh..." I reached over and picked up the tented card beside the bed. "At the Cowpoke Motel, Elko, Nevada."

"Nevada? What the hell are you doing in Nevada?"

"Sleeping."

"Well, yeah, obviously. Are you on a case?"

"Uh, yeah." I lied.

"I'll let you get back to sleep. Let me know when you head back east. We can meet or something."

"I'd like that."

"Goodnight, Jane."

"Bye."

I opened my eyes and clicked on the voicemail, then listened.

"Hey, this is Dean. Give me a call when you can."

I hit save, then closed my eyes. I didn't even ask him where he was; Dean was just away. I knew he was alive, but for how long?

My stomach growled and I turned to look around the room, illuminated only by a sliver of light through the curtained window. Horizontal pine log paneling stretched across the walls adorned with a horned cow skull and large portraits of cattlemen herding cows. _Nevada? What the hell was I doing in Nevada? _

I groaned and grabbed a pillow, pulling it down on my face. _Dammit. _First, I would shower, then I would make coffee and find something to eat, someplace with Wi/Fi. I needed a case; I needed to save someone.

Slowly, I slid my naked legs out from under the covers and trudged barefoot toward the bathroom. I started to remember checking-in to the motel, sliding my jeans off before I collapsed on the bed. I still wore my satin boy-short panties and my black Nirvana t-shirt over my bra. I hated sleeping in a bra.

In the bathroom, wallpapered with small cowboy boots on a beige background, I fought the urge to crawl back into bed. Instead, I pulled the matching cowboy boot curtain closed and turned on the shower. I glanced around the room. On the counter by the sink, someone had carefully displayed a few tiny bottles of toiletries in front of a fanned washcloth.. Had I even brought my things in from the car? I sighed and walked back out of the room.

My eyes scanned the faded wood plank patterned carpet, the pine dressers, and desk. My 9mm lay on the dresser to my left and my cell phone was on the bedside table. My jeans were crumpled on the floor a few feet in front of me. I frowned. Maybe I had set my bag on the other side of the bed. As I walked across the room, a man exclaimed behind me. "Dammit, Cas!"

I spun around as I took another step forward and saw Dean cursing at a man wearing a tan trench coat. I tripped over my jeans and crashed to the floor with a thud.

"Jane!" Dean yelled as I started to push myself up off the carpet. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah, I'm fine." My pride was injured, nothing else.

"What the hell, Cas?" Dean yelled as he tried to help me up.

"You said I should meet her, Dean." The man argued.

I got to my feet and turned toward the stranger with a shadow of dark whiskers on his face.

"Hello, Jane." The corners of his mouth turned up slightly as he waited for my reply.

I had never seen him before in my life, and yet, there was something there. I stepped closer to him like I was sleepwalking, confused. The short hairs on his cheek bristled against my palm as I touched his face and searched in his eyes. "Cas?"

"You know each other?" Dean asked, incredulously.

"No...yes...I..." How did I know him?

"We have known each other a long time." Cas answered, staring back at me.

Suddenly, I saw it, not in his face, but in my mind's eye. I felt it with every inch of my skin. I heard the deafening roar of the whirlwind. The burning heat from the fire singed the hair on my arm. I backed away from the angel in terror. I started sinking as I gagged on the stagnant water. I began to shiver from the remembered cold. I watched as inky wings emerged from behind him, stretching outward and consuming the light in the room.

Dean's angel was here to kill me.


End file.
